


Where There's Smoke

by thesecondseal



Series: More Than Smoke: A Noir AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Blood and Injury, Communication, Consensual Sex, Denial of Feelings, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fighting Kink, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Past Relationship(s), Playful Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Roughhousing, Satinalia, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Smut, Sparring, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 63,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondseal/pseuds/thesecondseal
Summary: a pre-More Than Smoke Masterlist roughly chronicling Essa and Garrett’s acquaintance/relationship before the events of More Than Smoke, as well as Bethany and Fin's relationship which is well established by the time we start Act 1 of More Than Smoke.If you're just here for the Cullen x Trevelyan Romance, you'll want to Start with Act 1: Pistol Packing Mama.Quite a few of these are over in A Glorious Disaster, but I realize that's not very chronological so I'm going to start moving them here. I'll only delete them from there once they're here though so if you get ahead of me, you can certainly check them out in that work. :D (also, feel free to ask me questions or check me out on tumblr as thesecondsealwrites, things are much more organized there).There are several new pieces that will be posted here though. Especially the Fin x Bethany romance which is new to AO3. I'll try to remember to mark each one with a NEW for my readers who've stuck with me through all this upheaval.additional tags to follow.





	1. Staredown

*****inspired by this [masterpiece](http://debby508.tumblr.com/post/151471539304) by [@debby508](https://tmblr.co/mIF0VgDvwgVkMYiHEWYyFOg). Seriously, the moment I saw it, all I could think about were those boxing robes. *swoons forever*

 

The house was packed and the crowd was wild. Their energy was bright and infectious, filling the air until Essa thought the night would burst with it. Her heartbeat had picked up the moment they stepped inside, breath coming instinctively shorter at the press of so many bodies, pulse climbing with the noise that lifted toward dusty steel rafters. Most of those gathered were locals—she would bet half of Kirkwall was there—but no few were from across the Marches. Fans had begun arriving in the days before from all over. Big names and big money from Ostwick, Starkhaven, Markham...no few from across the Waking Sea.

Essa wasn’t working tonight--she hadn’t yet gotten a position in Kirkwall--but some habits were impossible to break and she was already on guard, watchful and wary, nerves strung with anticipation of the event. Cari had promised to speak with her boss about getting Essa a job with security down at the the Tourney, but even at its best and worst the nightclub never had energy like this. It definitely never had the numbers. Essa had worked clubs and shows back in Ostwick, a few stadium events too, but even those only hit about a third of the occupancy of Kirkwall’s new Grand Arena. Fifteen thousand seats and every one of those was filled; Essa couldn’t even guess how many had snuck in and were taking up standing room. Too many, she thought, scowling slightly as she pushed her way ahead, parting the milling crowd with her shoulders and her own belligerent energy.

She and Cari were along tonight as Worren Merdrat’s guests. Essa hadn’t been in Kirkwall long, but her sister’s boss—Essa still refused to call Merdrat anything else even if she was beginning to suspect something more was going on between them—had clout and money and that meant first row floor seats. He had been only too quick to offer them up. He had been trying to buy Cari’s affections for months now and, Maker, forgive her, when Cari had offered to get the seats, Essa hadn’t been able to resist. It wasn’t as if anything Essa said or did was going to have any bearing on Cari’s decision to cozy up to the Carta boss.

Essa didn’t trust the man, but she was still looking at tonight as a job interview. May as well let him see a little of what she was capable of. She subtly parted a group of elegantly gowned girls too young for the jewels at their throats or the calculation in their perfectly smoked eyes. They giggled through their apologies, a redhead with an expert pout raking a hot glance up Essa’s body. She didn’t know if there was envy or interest in her green eyes, but Essa wasn’t after either. She turned her back to the girls, paused at the end of their row, waiting with patience she could afford for a couple to move out from in front of their seats.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this!”

Cari’s breathless exclamation didn’t quite make it over the roaring echoes of so many voices, but Essa caught the cadence, knew that the shock her sister affected was directed at the dwarf who walked beside her, his hungry stare never leaving for long the glittering fall of Cari’s lavender beaded gown. Essa rolled her eyes, chin touching her bare shoulder as she tossed her sister an exasperated glance.

“Really?” Essa demanded a touch too sharply.

Her sister’s violet-grey eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and Essa smirked, turned her gaze back front and center as Cari and Merdrat stepped past her. Her seat was the last on the row and she glanced back up the long slope of concrete aisle. Another fifteen minutes and that aisle would be cleared, roped off in velvet. Essa had never been so close to the action of a fight this big.

The Champion of Kirkwall never seemed to be able to quite decide if he was retiring and after months without even a whisper, he had accepted an exhibition match with the Prince of Starkhaven—a ridiculous title, but you couldn’t tell Marchers anything. She had been in the cheap seats when she saw Sebastian Vael fight in Ostwick the year before, and she and her father had been following Garrett Hawke’s career in the papers and on the radio for the past several. Essa didn’t count herself among his screaming, swooning fans—from the photographs she had seen, he was too blighted pretty and Essa didn’t trust pretty men—but she was still giddy at the idea of seeing such a match from ringside floor seats.

“You know,” Cari said as they slipped into their chairs. There was something sly in those two words and Essa knew retaliation for her earlier snark was coming. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so dressed up.”

Essa shot her sister a look of exasperation.

“You have your reasons for fancy dress.” She didn’t bother listing them; there were far more than Essa had and most of hers involved impressing someone. Essa dressed first and foremost for herself. “I have mine.”

Watching two beautiful men beat the sense out of each other was up there with celebrity dogs and horses. Essa had chosen the most spectacular dress she owned, a sinfully short fall of heavy emerald sequins that swung just loose enough from her body that she could wear her everknit compression holster. The halter neckline was nothing more than a satin ribbon as wide as her palm, the shimmer of green so deep it held blue shadows, cast them back against the slate of her eyes. Her stockings were a fine wash of silver, sheer as a whisper, and her boots were higher than she usually wore, supple black leather cinched with corset-style lacing to her calves. She felt powerful, maybe not as powerful as she did in the ring, but close enough.

“Mmmhmmm…”

Cari’s lips, full and shining like rubies in the bright overheads, slipped toward something smug, but she kept her own council as she turned her attention back to Merdrat. Essa settled back in her chair, stretched her legs out in more comfort than the cheap seats ever afforded, and flipped through the short, glossy fight program she had been handed at the door. Hawke was embossed above Vael, both in bold letters, though something about the typeface made Hawke look bigger. Essa caught her bottom lip in her teeth to stop her grin. No one ever said that Kirkwallan’s weren’t an odd sort of loyal.

“Doesn’t do him justice!”

Essa looked up at Merdrat’s shout. He leaned across Cari’s legs, one broad finger pointing at the image on the front cover of the program. Someone had snapped a photo of the two men at a prior staredown but Essa couldn’t quite take it seriously. There was too much mischief in Hawke’s eyes.

“He’s a lot bigger in person,” Merdrat added.

“I’m sure he is.”

Essa mostly managed to keep her patronizing tone in check. The man’s legend around Kirkwall was certainly larger than life, though the official portraits were nothing she hadn’t seen before. The short bios of each fighter didn’t hold any new tidbits of information either. She was pretty sure Hawke was going to take Vael apart.

“He’ll crowd right through Vael’s guard.”

She smiled, nodded, tried for the slightly vacant but interested expression Cari had long ago mastered at family parties and major social events, but Essa knew she couldn’t hold her face so falsely for long. She was going to have to learn now that she was here. The city would steal her smile if she didn’t learn to hide it safely away. Kirkwall was nothing like Ostwick, and the circles she and Cari were running in now were nothing like those they had left behind. Essa sighed in relief as Cari distracted Merdrat with some innocuous question she damn well knew the answer to.

The energy of the crowd changed suddenly, volume swelling on a surge of excitement until the arena felt at once both impossibly large and too small to contain them all. Essa found herself on her feet along with everyone else, staring across the ring as Sebastian Vael made his way down the opposite aisle, strides long and confident, posture stoic. He made little eye contact with the crowd, kept his gaze straight ahead, game mask already on. His robe and trunks were blue satin, the same icy hue as his eyes. He wasn’t the fan favorite tonight—he had been when she last saw him fight—and the voice of the crowd dipped low in disapproval, a rumbling boo that he either didn’t notice, or didn’t care about.

Essa was betting the latter.

Vael wasn’t supposed to be nearly as quick as Hawke, though he was elegance in the ring, a gentleman’s fighter. Like Essa’s father, he was an old fashioned out-boxer, though a bit more of a white knight than the Wulf of Ostwick had ever been. From what Essa had read and heard of Hawke, he was Vael’s perfect foil, a slugger, but graceful with it. Anyone who followed fighting knew that a slugger was the out-fighter’s opposite, and when one possessed that kind of strength as well as speed…Well, it was going to either be a good long fight or a quick and ugly one.

Still, Vael couldn’t be written off. He was a damned smart fighter, known for his counterpunches, and the man could pull a switch hit when you weren’t expecting it. Essa’d had the sense not to put much money on either of them. Well, not much on both of them. Gambling was a bit of the fun after all. Fighters were, by nature, risk takers.

Vael climbed into the ring, stood bouncing on light feet, hood sliding back just enough to reveal a cold, clear stare.

“Here he comes!”

The high, zealous scream came from the row just behind Essa and she realized then where the girls had gotten too. She turned back from the ring in time to see the last velvet rope clip into place beside her empty chair. The lights of the arena were near blinding as the Champion of Kirkwall made his way toward center stage. A hundred flashbulbs went off, dull pops only adding to the frenetic chorus. The crowd was chanting his name Hawke, Hawke, Hawke! Cries rising to a deafening crescendo, fifteen thousand voices thundering until Essa was certain the roof would give way in the face of such passion.

“Remind you of anyone you know?”

Cari was laughing, shouting right along with the rest. She caught Essa’s waist and turned her body and thus her gaze toward the top of the aisle. Her breath puffed cool against Essa’s ear, but she was gone before Essa could reply. Not that her answer would have been the one Cari wanted.

Or honest for that matter.

The man was a fucking showboat, and yeah, she knew one when she saw one. She had been accused of being the same sort of trouble more than once. He was robed as Vael had been, black satin conserving the heat from his pre-fight warm-up. The stadium lights bounced off of the fabric, made something ancient and mysterious of the sleek shadows. The gleam reflected off of his eyes, cast his shoulders even broader. Intimidation was half the fight, her father always said.

Hawke walked with deadly swagger, narrow hips loose as a sailor’s. The deep hood of his robe was trimmed in scarlet, just the barest edge of blood-bright color, and was belted too loose, sacrificing the fire in his muscles for a bit of bare-chest and vanity. She had never seen a fighter wear jewelry to the ring, but he had that too, a double stranded chain with a single black feather dangling in the narrow v. Sentiment? Further vanity?

It annoyed her that she wanted to know. The man had stage presence, she’d give him that.

“Hawke! Hawke! Hawke!”

His dark eyes scanned the crowd, shrewd and distant, but he bestowed upon his dazzled fans a warm if cocky smile. He seemed to thrive on the energy of the crowd, but something made Essa wonder. She watched his gaze linger, brighten with frank appraisal in brief moments of real connection with individuals among the masses. He had the look of a man used to getting his way, and maybe a little arrogant with it. A man threw him a kiss and his grin curved wider. Essa thought she caught the dip of a dimple hiding beneath the thick scruff of his beard.

Maybe not so little.

“Hawke! Hawke! Hawke!”

The shouting seemed to grow steadily louder as he made his way down the aisle. Hawke raised his fists high, satin sleeves sliding down past his elbows revealing taut forearms just on the right side of bulk. He had swimmer’s arms, stacked biceps but nowhere near puffed up to get in his way. He was a big man—six-two flat footed according to his bio—but there wasn’t a lot of extra to him, muscles honed and useful. If he was half as fast as he looked—

“Garrett! Garrett Hawke! Over here!”

The screamer was at it again and Essa rolled her eyes just as Hawke turned to favor the woman behind her with a cheeky grin. He caught her gaze instead and his lips thinned fast over his teeth, a genuine smirk he wasn’t quite able to stop. Essa shrugged once in chagrin, an apology she didn’t mean. His smirk eased back toward flirtatious, the tip of his tongue swiping out over a full bottom lip before he winked at her.

Andraste preserve her, Essa thought, from ever having such an ego.

She arched one brow in silent retort, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and lifted her chin with a haughty glare. She didn’t know what he was expecting, she sure as the Void wasn’t going to swoon into a puddle like half the damn crowd. Hawke laughed, the sound deep and booming across the scant feet between them. It seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. For just a moment the crowd receded, and for a solitary breath he seemed smaller than his presence, larger than the fight she could see waiting in his fists. There were secrets in the shadows that played across his face, and something wry and honest crinkled the corners of his eyes. He reached up with one hand, touched two fingers to the edge of his hood as if to the brim of a hat. Essa tipped her head to the side, asking a question she had no words for, as surprised by her candor as she was when he nodded once in answer.

More than brawn, she realized, as he sauntered by. Though what the more was she couldn’t say.


	2. Love You To Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was prompted for smut over on tumblr with the following: “Love You to Death by Type O Negative, Garrett x Essa, smutty smut smut NO ANGST happy ending holy fuck smut.”
> 
> Now if you aren't familiar with the band, their lead singer had a seriously sexy voice. Worth a listen even if it's not your style.
> 
> This piece really took on a life of its own. I should have just set it in the FLUFF LAND that is post-alternate epilogue Garrett and Essa, but instead I decided to write early-we're not talking about feelings because of course this is just sex-and holy heck is this really Essa's first time for oral sex? but don't forget you have to write this without angst. Because I'm a masochist.
> 
> So here you go. tw for blood (pre-existing injury)

_The Hanged Man_  was crowded, seemed everyone in Kirkwall wanted to hear the new talent. Their reputation had been preceding them all summer while they drank and partied and played their way across the Marches. Corff was looking forward to the money, but not the trouble that usually came with them. He had called in more muscle and Garrett was still trying not to be put out that it hadn’t included him. He was more than willing to bust some heads on Corff’s behalf.

Wouldn’t look half so good doing it though.

Along with the usual staff, Essa Trevelyan was bouncing tonight. She and Garrett had been sparring for about six months now. She was fast, had good hands, and an unyielding spine out of the boxing ring. She might not be Aveline, but she ran her own kind of tight ship, and her bluster was a good enough substitute for the brass most nights. When that didn’t work, she used her fists. Things of beauty, those. On the best nights, he got to watch her rough somebody up; on the worst nights, troublemakers found themselves facing the blunt stare of a mismatched pair of revolvers. She had a .38—small, neat, snub-nosed, and tucked into the back of her skirt—but the .44 would only fit in a shoulder rig.  Garrett had never seen a night pass without bloodshed if she drew the larger gun, but she wasn’t quick to it.

He was pretty sure that was why Corff called her.  That or the legs. Hard to say. The ass wasn’t a distant second, if a second at all. Garrett watched her hips sway as she made her way from the edge of the bar. He should never have fucked her; she should never have let him. In the week since, he hadn’t been able to think about much beyond going another round with her.

Insufferable woman knew it too, had the nerve not to seem any more pleased about the whole affair than he was.

She was dressed to kill tonight, a black suit tailored so precisely she may as well have been wearing nothing for all that it hindered her movement. She had just put someone out the backdoor, though Garrett knew that was a little more personal, and Maker’s breath, was he jealous that he hadn’t gotten to put his fist through the guy’s face.  The shirt beneath her jacket was silk, blue bright and deep, near glowing against her skin. The color cast the flat grey of her eyes to gunmetal and he wanted to needle her just a little, watch her temper flash like muzzle fire.

He lifted his drink, stared through an amber single-malt toward the stage and tried to blame it on the music. The tavern was filled with black notes and smoke, heavy beats and a low velvet voice that coaxed, dreamed, promised such exquisite sin. The air was booze soaked and acrid. The band had been playing for half an hour and already the place smelled like sex. Those who managed to dance amid the crush of the packed house were doing little more than kissing grinding against each other.

Well, some were doing a bit more. Garrett chuckled, watched Essa escort a pair through the crowd and out the back door.

“Perfectly good alley for that,” she snapped, voice brushing low against his ear as she returned.  “This is my spot, Hawke.”

She hopped up on the end of the bar, broad shoulders flexing beneath her jacket, hip nudging him across the polished surface. He didn’t give her nearly the room he should have, but then, she didn’t seem to want it. Her thigh pressed warm against his through the layers of their clothes.

“Running hot tonight, Trevelyan?”

“Isn’t everyone?” There was no shame in what may as well have been an open admission. She jerked her chin toward the writhe of bodies between them and the stage, a wry smile teasing the corner of her lips. “That last pair tried to tell me the singer is a desire demon.”

Garrett chuckled. “He definitely has something.” He set his empty glass on the bar behind him, wiped his palms on his legs and left them there, one hand dangerously close to the hem of her skirt.

“Well, whatever it is.” Essa shifted slightly beside him, hemline edging up another inch above her knees, thighs rubbing together.  For a moment all he could think about was sliding his hand between them. “It isn’t magic. I don’t care how horny they are, these bastards need to take it elsewhere.”

She reached up, rubbed the back of her neck with one hand.

“You jealous?” He lifted his pinky, ran the tip of his finger lightly behind the bend of her knee. Her skin was hot beneath the fine wash of sheer silk stockings, and the fire that leapt into her eyes was a spark of blue.

“Of what?” she asked, slapping his hand away. “Public sex?”

He raised a brow and her chin lifted at the challenge.

“No, thank you. I wouldn’t even begin to know where to start charging for such an audience.”

“Well,” Garrett drawled. “At least I know one of your boundaries now.”

Essa snorted. “Don’t worry, Hawke. You ever do something I don’t like, I’ll let you know.”  Her grin was honest, and a little mean. “Better to pay the penance than ask permission right?”

“That is not,” Garrett laughed, reaching behind him to tap the bar for a refill. “How that saying goes.”

“I’d offer penance before forgiveness.” And he took the warning for the invitation that it was.

“I’ll remember that.”

He toasted her with his drink and she nodded once before she hopped down from bar, eyes narrowed toward what looked like an altercation on the other side of the floor.

“You start blaming your wandering hands on the music, Hawke.” Essa straightened her skirt, cast a bored glance over her shoulder before turning back to smile sweetly at him.  She reached for his hand, ran the backs of her knuckles over his in what might have passed for a lover’s caress. “And I’ll break every one of your fingers.”

She would too. He caught her hand, watched over her knuckles as she scowled at him, but she didn’t pull away.

“You know damn well it isn’t the music.” He brushed his lips over her glove, watched her eyes go to smoke.

“Well.” She leaned in, dropped her other hand to his thigh, fingers teasing with the smallest of movements.  When her breath hit his lips, she smiled. “Maybe not  _only_  the music.”

She sauntered off, every stride making a show of it.  Infernal woman. No, it wasn’t the music. He should have known she wouldn’t be a one and done. A man didn’t get a woman like Essa Trevelyan out of his system with a quick fuck in a tavern storeroom. No matter what he told himself at the time, her hands kept telling him something different. She was wearing gloves tonight, supple leather, subtle laces at her wrists, but he knew that beneath them her knuckles were bruised, thick scabs across each of the first. He’d caught her going bare and brutal against a child slaver two nights ago. Pulled her off before there wasn’t anything left for Aveline’s boys to process.

But she hadn’t once been out of control.

_“You ever think about letting go?” Beth asked her, putting the last nail in a coffin Garrett hadn’t quite realized he was climbing in._

_“Of what?” Essa asked, shaking her hands off, scattering blood as if it were water to the dark refuse of the darktown alley._

_“Anything?” His sister’s laugh was mocking, but friendly with it. “You carry rage better than most, but you’re quick to use it.”_

_“I use it, or it uses me.”_

_She didn’t spare the man bleeding out at her feet another glance. Across the moon-silvered shadows, Beth shot Garrett a sharp look, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking watching Essa pace._ Hawke, no.  _She mouthed the words and Essa turned to face him, grin curving through the splatter of blood on her face._ Hawke, yes.

_He nearly kissed her there, with his sister watching, but Essa had taken pity on Beth if not him, turning back to finish her answer._

_“You defeated your demons, healer; I live with mine.”_

She hadn’t let Beth heal her, and he knew, without her every offering up the sentiments, that she would revel in the pain every time she clenched her fists. Maker’s breath, he wanted those fists in his hair again.

“You have the look of a man about to make a  _very_  good mistake,” Bela said, sidling up to the bar before him.

He spread his knees enough for her to lean back between them, her eyes never quite leaving the stage. She draped her elbows wide over his legs, displaying perfect cleavage.  She smelled good, and Garrett knew if he asked, she’d be willing, but he also knew when Bela had her sights on a prize.

“You thinking of bedding the dark prince tonight?” He nodded toward the band.

“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be much bed involved,” Bela tipped her head back and grinned up at him through the dim light, lips slick as sweet as candy. “You?”

Garrett laughed. “We’ll see.”

It all depended on where they were when Essa finally put her hands on him, and she would. He watched her break up a fight with less brawn than it deserved, patience in her hands and a cold, dark smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She would be spoiling for something before the night was up. A fight, a fuck. Maybe both. If he was lucky, she’d choose a sturdy wall over the ring, but he’d take whatever she was offering.

Not that he planned on telling her that.

*

Essa needed a break. The bass was heavier than summer shadows, and the lead singer’s deep baritone had long since seeped through her skin, settling low and deep. She was restless, not much better off than the crowd, though she was better at maintaining some semblance of control. So far she hadn’t pinned him to a wall and demanded that he fuck her, and if that restraint had made her uncharacteristically sympathetic to the couples—and two trios—she had bounced out in the door in the last hour for doing the much the same well…she would just make up the damage to reputation later.

_“You running hot, Trevelyan?”_

Smug bastard. As if a single hurried tryst a week ago made him some sort of expert on her body. It hadn’t even been that great. Alright, fine, it had been that great. But it certainly hadn’t been  _enough_  and she wasn’t handing out gold stars for sex that didn’t leave her satisfied. Even if the orgasm been the best of her life.

“Watch yourself.” Essa dodged a swaying blonde, caught her drunken spin and passed her back, giggling, into the arms of a brunette who at least looked marginally more in control of her faculties. “She alright?”

She had to shout to be heard, had to lean in close enough to smell expensive perfume and cherry lip balm to hear them both assure her that they were through drinking for the evening. The blonde planted a sticky sweet kiss on the corner of Essa’s mouth, arms around still around the other woman’s neck as she thanked Essa for checking on them.

“Just…” Essa shook her head with a smile. “Water from now on, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Blondie giggled, twirling a long lock of dark hair around her finger as her companion pulled her as much out of Essa’s space as much she could given the press around them.

“You got plans later?” the brunette asked, lips lifting from the sweat-slicked shoulder of the woman in her arms. There were small indentations from her teeth on the blonde’s dark skin. Essa took a deep breath, jerked her eyes back to center when caught them wandering, looking for Garrett.

Jealous. Well, maybe a little.

“We’ve got a place not far.” The blonde eyed Essa appreciatively, blue eyes rounding, head nodding with almost comical emphaticness at the brunette’s lifted brow.

They were both beautiful. Full of music and life. Opposite ends of so many feminine spectrums. Essa had a deep aesthetic appreciation for women--men too, but she was pickier about them. In a city like Kirkwall, you couldn’t kick a can without hitting some cat who thought he looked better than he did in a mediocre suit, but women were something else. Soft fabrics, soft curves, jaunty hats. Neat suits over hard muscles. Secrets hidden in smoky eyes. This pair, well they were from opposite ends of something, dark and fair, long curls and a short blonde bob, eyes blue as a spring morning and a gaze like smoldering emeralds. Essa fell somewhere in the middle, imagined for a moment just what it might be like between them--a tangle of color and slow sweet sighs--but even tonight her body with the whole damn tavern begging to get laid, her body was, as usual, uninterested beyond the fantasy.

“Sorry, ladies.” The smile she gave them was filled with genuine regret. “Long night for me.”

And it seemed to be getting longer. She moved off, nodding in appreciation to the calls of “if you change your mind” and “you know where to find us.” Not for the first time since...well her first times, she wished she could indulge the way so many others did. She had never managed casual sex, not until last week, and if she were being honest, she’d had to work through about six months of wanting to kill Garrett Hawke first.

She didn’t want to know what that said about her.

“You—” Garrett’s breath was hot on the back of her neck, as if her traitorous thoughts had conjured the man out onto the floor. Essa pretended she didn’t know it was him, drove one elbow back sharp into his belly and setting him back half a step. She almost wished she hadn’t. The words she stole along with his breath might have been ones she wanted, but more likely he would have just annoyed her and Corff wouldn’t appreciate her roughing up one of his favorites without a better reason.

“Sorry, Hawke.”

She tried to sound like she meant it, but they both knew she didn’t. The man saw too damn much. She’d made a mistake with him the other night—a really,  _really_ good mistake—and she was pretty sure she was going to do it again--tonight--despite her intentions to the contrary.

“Liar.”

She turned to face him, and he was still standing too fucking close. Close enough that she could smell the combination of his soap and his sweat over the thick pungent crush of the bodies around them. Someone behind her jostled her forward and her nose hit his chest, knees crashing against his legs. His arms came up around her to steady her, one hand splaying wide across the vulnerable bend of her neck.

“Let me go, Hawke.”

He took his time about it, fingers sliding around her neck, knuckles grazing her jaw. Essa took a slow breath, told herself she needed it for patience. There was a tease of spiced tobacco from his breast pocket.

“Tell Corff I’m taking a smoke break.”

Incident aside, the crowd had mostly calmed. The music was harder and slower in the final set and she didn’t imagine many people were going to make it far once they left tonight, but for the most part she hadn’t seen anything she didn’t need to for almost half an hour. She’d covered breaks for the rest of the security staff and was looking more forward than she wanted to admit to getting the hell outside.

“You don’t smoke.”

Essa looked up, chin sliding on the silk of his loosened necktie. The red silk was bright, blood against snow, and he was still holding her too closely, watching her too damn carefully.  Andraste preserve her, she wanted more from him. She took a cigar from the pocket of his jacket without asking, fingers lingering. The cotton of his shirt was warm above hard muscles and it was a damn shame, she thought, that she hadn’t gotten to really taste him last time. She wasn’t certain whose idea it had been to have sex with most of their clothes on, but such an oversight was as good a reason as any for another round.

Essa smoothed his jacket back into place, leaned up on her toes to murmur in his ear. “You don’t know everything, Hawke.”

By the Mabari, the man smelled good. The air was hot in the tavern, and it took everything in her not to lick the salt from his neck. Essa stepped back, couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed that he didn’t put up a fight this time.

“I know—“

The smile on his face suggested he had read her perfectly. Essa managed another step before he caught her waist in his hands, dragged her up against the hard line of his body. He moved with the music, hips loose against hers, and even her token struggles seemed more dance than fight.

“--that quite a few, myself included, are absolutely heartbroken you didn’t kiss that blonde.”

The smile he flashed her was pure mischief, and some of the tension in her body eased for half a breath before he brought it back tenfold, sliding one knee between hers.

“I don’t dance, Hawke,” she gritted the words between her teeth. “And definitely not on the clock.”

“You said you were taking a smoke break.”

Garrett’s broad palms slipped easily beneath her suit jacket, fingers tugging at the tucked in tails of her shirts, until the slide of silk over her skin was a maddening. When he finally touched her, skin on skin, Essa hissed, told herself it was the sudden surge of the crowd that canted her hips more firmly against him.

“I told you to tell Corff,” she muttered, not quite grinding against his thigh. “I’m not off the floor yet.”

Her hands were on his biceps, fingers digging into taut muscles. He slid one arm around her waist, lifting her, pushing her skirt up higher with his leg. Essa slapped him on the arm.

“You wanna know what else I know?”

Garrett’s voice was deep, maybe not as deep as Mr. Sin singing about dark corners and dark deeds, but as she had never felt  _his_  rumbling profanities against her frantic pulse, Garrett’s had the edge. Essa scowled up at him, lips suddenly dry.

“I know.” He dipped his chin, pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips, tongue sweeping out to claim the last lingering of cherry sweet. “That you are about two steps from begging me to fuck you.”

“I don’t beg.” She shoved him back a step, finally breaking free of the crowded floor. That her tremblings legs held her up was something of a fucking miracle. She pulled her skirt back into place, glared at him through the low light.

“That sounds like a challenge, Trevelyan.” His grin was cocky, hands easy at his sides.

Essa couldn’t help it. She grinned. “Maybe it is.”

*

When Garrett found her, she was standing beneath a faded No Smoking sign, bareheaded, lipstick fresh, cigar clamped between crimson-stained lips.The end flared bright red, mingled with the murky yellow light of a distant streetlight and played havoc with her eyes. They were grey, and then they were silver, little flashes of blue that he knew meant her magic was giving her trouble.  If she couldn't find another outlet, she’d be at the gym in another few hours, probably owe Ricky another bag if she beat this one the way she had the last time Garrett had seen her like this.

Well, maybe not just like this.

She took a slow breath, fingers clenching and releasing at her sides. She used her fists like Silence, kept the rage in her hands sated and the demons in her head quiet. He knew better than most that mages like Essa were trouble.

Maybe he had a type.

“Smoke?”

She waited for the door to close behind him before passing him the cigar. He took a quick puff, realized she had been burning it rather than smoking it and threw what was left of the cigar toward a puddle of standing water. It landed with a hiss.

“You breathing fire now, Trevelyan?”

Seemed about right for her. So did she if he thought about it; he didn't.

Essa grinned. “Nearly done, I think.” She exhaled, a shuddering breath thick with smoke. “I owe you.”

“We can work it out in trade,” he said drily.

She was calmer now, though only by degrees. “I have fifteen minutes.”

There was laughter in her voice, but longing too. He didn’t think she would forgive him if he made her ask properly.

“We can do a lot in fifteen minutes.”

“You sure know the way to a woman’s heart,” Essa drawled.

She was smiling when he kissed her--a change from the last time when she’d kissed him just to shut him up--but there was still a bite with each cling of her lips, a scrape of tooth against his tongue. Maker, help him, he was finding he liked that bright burst of aggression more and more.

“It’s not your heart I’m after.”

She snorted, and he caught her levity with his teeth, kissed her until her arms were latched around his neck and she was stretched up on her toes, little sounds of greed rattling in her throat. She tasted like fire and rage and urgency. He had hardly drawn a breath between their lips before she let him go, dropped back to her heels to fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

“Slow down, woman.” He was hard, but he had already decided what to do with her. Every brush of her fingers against him only tested his resolve.

“What part of ‘fifteen minutes’ did you miss?” Essa demanded.

He caught her hands in his, grip stronger than necessary. For a moment she struggled against him, pupils spinning wide and dark. He saw the moment she decided to hurt him, knew for a fact she could break his hold.

“Take your gloves off.” He didn’t quite recognize his own voice, could only hope she didn’t hear the naked want in those words.

“What?”

He could see the command knock her sideways. Essa twisted her wrists towards his thumbs, broke free with glare.

“Off,” Garrett repeated, offering her no explanation. He folded his arms across his chest and waited to see if she would give a little.

“Fine.” Essa snapped, pushing him a half step away. She fiddled with the laces, yanked the gloves off and shoved them in her pocket. “Any other noes?”

She tipped her head to the side, regarded him curiously.

“’Noes’?”

He stepped back into her space, and she swayed toward him, chest brushing his before her hands flattened against his lapels. Her knuckles looked like hell. Only a little healed, a lot of ache. He wanted to put his lips against her broken skin. When she caught him looking, she snarled at him again.

“Things you aren’t into, things you don’t like.” Her chin lifted in defiance, but she stared past his shoulder, a blush heating her cheeks.

“Not that I know of.” He was still surprised at how rough things had been between them last time, how rough he thought they could get, but if she was game then he was. Garrett reached for her jacket, began unbuttoning it without asking, gaze finally catching and holding hers. “You?”

“Don’t mess up my clothes.” He snickered and she shrugged. “I like them. I spend good money on them.”

“They’re nice clothes.” He was especially fond of that skirt, but didn’t think now was the time to tell her. Garrett spread her jacket open, careful of her gun as he trailed one finger down the line of buttons on her shirt. “Anything else?”

She swallowed, fingers clenching lightly against his jacket, breath held, and he knew she was waiting to see what he would do next.

“I’ll have to let you know as we go.”

For a moment there was something unguarded in her eyes, and he wanted to ask what he was missing. Essa was a lot of swagger, but he thought maybe someone had been fool enough to hurt her once. He hoped she’d dealt it back to them, whatever the hurt was, and he could respect looking for a rebound. Hell, maybe he was looking for one too.

“Alright.”

He eased the first button free, leaned in to place a biting kiss against her collarbone. Her muscles flexed against his teeth, her indrawn breath twice as sharp.

“I’m not complaining about your trajectory,” Essa murmured thickly when he moved to the second button. “But I’m not sure we have time for where you’re going.”

Garrett slipped another button free, caught a glimpse of scarlet lace against sun-bronzed skin. He knew she spent a lot of time on the shore, found himself wondering if she was pale anywhere.

“Oh, there’s time.” He bit a kiss against the inside of one breast, beard catching on lace as he turned to treat the other to the same.

“Dammit, Hawke.”

But the words were more gasp than rancor, and her hands were at his throat, thumbs sweeping soft over his pulse. He undid two more buttons, nibbled a line toward her navel, heard a low thump and looked up to see her head fall back against the brick wall behind her.

“ _Fifteen_  minutes,” Essa repeated.

“Faithless woman.” He dropped to his knees, the move quick enough to surprise her. Her fingers carded through his hair on his descent, settled lightly on top of his head.

“What are you doing?”

She stared down at him in suspicion, eyes wide. Maybe too wide. He ran his hands up the outside of her legs, gathering her skirt at his wrists.

“Hawke.”

His name was a growl on her lips and Garrett couldn’t have stopped his grin if he wanted to.

“You said we have fifteen minutes,” he reminded her.

Considerably more minutes than she was going to need. Her arousal hung heavy in the air before him, the scarlet lace over her sex nearly soaked. For a moment he could only look at her, stretched up above him, dark wool staid enough for most Chantry services, lingerie meant for sin. Maker's breath,tonight wasn't going to be enough.

“Probably ten now,” she groused. “You've been too damn chatty tonight.”

Garrett smirked.  “Ten whole minutes?” His hands were rough, too rough for the silk of her stockings. He unhooked her garters with more haste than he preferred, brushed a quick kiss just above the top of each stocking. “I need two.”

“I wouldn’t brag about that.”

Laughter floated behind the quip, and he laughed with her, continued pushing at her skirt until the dark fabric was pinned above her hips. He dragged his nails against her skin--he’d learned last time how much she liked that--and even in the low light he could see the faint abrasions rising in soft red whorls. He wanted her naked. Wanted her stretched out somewhere--bed, table, mat. It didn't matter. This wasn't a place for taking his time and he needed to. She was shivering above him, back pressed hard against brick, garters dangling, scarlet deepening in the shadows. The metal fastenings flashed bright when they caught the street lights.

She was beautiful, and he damn well knew better than to tell her so.

“I’m sorry.” Garrett breathed her in, wondered how long he could tease her. “I meant ‘you need two’. Maker’s breath, Trevelyan, have you been like this all night?”

“If you mean, wet, and wanting, and more than willing to punch you in the face.” The admission was rough. “Then yes.”

He leaned in before she could make good on her threat, pressed an open mouthed kiss to damp lace.

Essa flinched. HARD.

“Es--Trevelyan?” He caught himself, knew she’d find five ways to punish the slip. “You still with me?”

*

Oh, yeah, she was with him. Maker’s breath, was she with him.

“There have got to be better things for you to be doing with that mouth,” she grumbled.

He reached for the hem of her underwear and a tremor wracked her body, drove her back against the wall.

“There are.”

Garrett rubbed her hipbone with his cheek, beard catching on the lace of her garter belt and suddenly Essa couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the heat of his mouth, the low sound of his voice. Her fingers clenched in his hair. Too hard. Too fast. She let go just as quickly, and he murmured something, some small wordless sound of distress. Essa stared down her body, watched him catch his bottom lip between his teeth. He was debating asking her a question she desperately hoped he wouldn’t, and caught as she was, she didn’t have much hope of distracting him.

“This isn’t...this isn't your firs--?”

“Maker fucking take you, Hawke, if you finish that, I will kill you.”

Given their position, he would probably beat her to her guns, but that was absolutely not a conversation they were having. And definitely not right now. She hadn’t had nearly enough booze, and his hands were still on her hips, breath falling just shy of what seemed the whole center of her nervous system.

“And last week?” he asked, too quietly.

Andraste, preserve her, the man was too much.

“No.” She shook her head, the scrape of brick too damn real, the edge of passion fraying. “No it wasn’t. You’re off the hook there, Hawke.”

She reached for her shirt, fingers stumbling over the buttons. “Look it was romance before, love and all the sad, trite songs. This is just sex. If you’re not on board--”

He yanked her underwear down.

Essa squealed. “What the--?!”

“Do you want me stop?” The demand was harsh, but the hand on her ankle was gentle as he lifted her foot free of lace.

Essa shuddered, ran her tongue over suddenly parched lips. “No.”

He lifted a brow.

“No,” she said, more firmly now. She tugged on his hair, and the sound that rumbled in his throat traveled straight to her clit. “I really don’t want you to stop.”

Essa hooked her knee over his shoulder, tried not to let him see her astonishment when her other leg held her up. “Not at all.”

She pulled him a little closer and Garrett grinned.

“Good girl.”

He kissed her again before she could swear at him--a tactical maneuver she would later admire--and Essa forgot all about how much she hated that particular phrase of praise when he murmured it again against bare lips. Her knee nearly gave out and she clung to him, hands so tight in fists that she knew she had to be hurting his scalp.

“Don’t you dare let me fall,” Essa gasped.

Garrett chuckled, the sound traveling through her like lightning. He licked her once, a touch so light she might have imagined it, before he pulled back.

“I’ve got you, Trevelyan. Give me that other leg.”

She was trembling too much not to comply. Essa watched through heavy lids as he slipped her underwear from her other ankle and into the pocket of his jacket.

“Hey!”

“Incentive.” He hauled her leg over his shoulder, bit down hard on the inside of her thigh.

“For what?” she breathed, head thunking back with a surge of pleasure-pain.

“For you not to leave after the show.”

He pressed her back against the wall. Her legs were steady on his broad shoulders; she hooked her feet back around toward his chest. The brick was hard against her shoulders and her upper back, just another sharp sensation keeping her where she wanted to be.

“Better?”

His face was in her crotch, his hands were spread wide beneath her ass, and she felt like she was coming apart at the seams, but she no longer felt like she was falling and she hadn't worried about her magic for what had to be five solid minutes. So, yeah. She was better. Essa made an inarticulate noise she hoped he understood as an affirmative.

“You’re a fearless dame you know that?”

He punctuated the compliment with a flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips and Essa decided to forgive him for that whole “dame” bit.

“Hawke.”

“Unless that’s a no.” He turned back to her thigh, kissed her more gently over the beginnings of a bruise and she tried not to think about how much she liked the idea of that mark blossoming against her skin. “Hush.”

Essa hushed. He pushed in against her with his chin, beard scratching, mouth spreading her wide for his tongue. He licked her in truth this time, slow, so damn infuriatingly slow, and she nearly screamed. Dear, sweet Maker, how had she ever gone this long without  _that._

“Alright?”

He sounded concerned and that was the last thing she needed right now. Essa dragged on his hair.

“Fucking hells, Hawke, now  _I know_  you can do better things with your mouth than talk.”

He was laughing as he kissed her, the vibrations of mirth traveling along desperate nerves. She choked on a sound too loud to be a moan and he gentled, running his tongue up and down in long flat strokes, circling lightly over her clit with the point until she was squirming against his face, trying to increase the pressure.

“Hawke, dammit.”

She was close. Fucking hell, he had been right about her only needed a few minutes. She didn’t think it had been that long, but when pressed his tongue hard and firm against her clit, her body drove a hoarse shout from her throat. She wanted more. Wanted to suffer all night, until she could recognize every new sensation before they wrecked her.

But right now she just wanted the high.

“Hawke.”

He licked her again, hard, held tight as the first orgasm hit her, hands spreading her wider as the climax tumbled through her like a wave. She was wetter now--Maker she couldn’t remember the last time she had been so wet--and when Garrett groaned against her, the first rush rolled right into another.

“Good girl.”

She was quivering too much to punish him. She pulled his hair hands weak, knuckles screaming from earlier abuses that hadn’t registered. She ran gentler fingers through thick dark hair, watched the street lights gleam off of darker blood.

“I hate you.”

Garrett sucked on her flesh, sweet careful kisses he had never bestowed upon her mouth. He drove her back up while her arms and legs were still shaking.

“I’ve earned that.”

The smug confirmation landed against her clit a moment before he wrapped his lips around her, tongue flicking too fast and too gently to do exactly what she needed.

“Dammit, Hawke.” She arched against him, used her shoulders and head to press her hips forward. “Please.”

He took her clit again, sucked hard and deep, rolled that bundle of shrieking nerves between careful teeth, an edge of danger, a threat of pain, and too much trust between them. She writhed against him, body lighting, skin rippling like flame until she was mumbling nonsense and prayers over his bowed head. The third orgasm hit her with a shock of violence, tore a scream from her throat she hadn’t expected herself capable of. Essa let go of him so fast she nearly fell, clapping both hands over her mouth while her body raged and quaked and fell apart, tried to reassemble itself into something transcendent.

“Fuck, Hawke.”

She was breathing as if she’d gone eight rounds in the ring. There was no way her legs would hold her, but his arms were still strong beneath her and her hands were cool.

“That’s the idea.” He pulled back enough to place a kiss on the inside of her thigh, lips curving with a slick, wet smile. “Later.”


	3. Shadowboxer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Picks up after Love You To Death. Part 2/5
> 
> tw: blood (pre-existing injury). Rough sex. Does this count as after care? I don’t know. These assholes. That is all.

Essa’s breathing was ragged, loud enough that Garrett thought he could hear every coarse gasp echoing off of the walls of the narrow alley. Not that that was possible. Her thighs were still tight against his ears, and beyond the heavy beat of her pulse rushing past his cheek, the summer night was thick with song. The band was playing something dark and slow, and even with a few feet of brick and a steel door between them, every low velvet note wrapped around them, cocooned them in a false sense of seclusion that he wanted to exploit further.

“Fuck, Hawke.

Her hands fell from her lips with a shuddering sigh—an exhale he felt more than he heard. Her fingers lay soft and too damn gentle on the top of his head. Some kind of tenderness that she didn’t owe him. There was blood on her knuckles, and blood in his hair, battle wounds reopened in the heat passion. Sick bastard that he was, it was exactly what he had wanted. He was obsessed with the woman’s hands. With the violence she kept in them, and the patience. Garrett could still feel those fists clenched, tugging sharp bursts of pain across his scalp with every stroke of his tongue. She had put in an admirable effort not to crush his head with her thighs—at least to start with—but in the end she had lost all pretense, knees clamping down, hands clapping over her mouth not quite in time to muffle the sudden harsh exclamation that ripped from her throat.

Maker, damn him, he was pretty fucking proud of that shout.

“That’s the idea,” he agreed, pressing a grin against her thigh when she snickered.

He certainly hoped so anyway. Garrett shifted his feet, holding tight to what had to be one of the most perfect asses in all of Thedas as he tried keep both their balances and rearrange into something resembling a comfortable position. His erection was caught behind the stretch of his trousers, every seam rubbing him just wrong. He wasn’t done with Essa Trevelyan, not by a long shot.

“Later,” he added roughly. A question. A promise. One as much for her as himself.

“How much later?”

Her voice was thick with longing, sharp at the end with no small amount of impatience. Garrett was grateful for both. Her legs were still trembling over his shoulders, and he knew without looking that he had bruises from the toes of her shoes digging into his chest. And yeah...he was proud of those too. He turned to place a kiss on the inside of her thigh, lips and chin still slick with her release, knew the moment she realized he was as wet as she was. The shiver that wracked her body was a thing of beauty.

“There are what?” he asked, rubbing his beard against her just to listen to her breath hitch. “Three songs left?”

“Something like that.”

She squirmed, strong thighs flexing against his cheeks, but she wasn’t going anywhere just yet. Not unless she meant it, and he trusted her to tell him.

“Let me go,” Essa said, scowling down at him. “We still have time—“

They didn’t. Not for everything he wanted from her. He placed a wide, open mouth kissed against the bruise he had already left on her leg, and whatever she was going to offer fell away on a moan.

“I’ve had what I wanted.”

He should stop teasing her, but Andraste, forgive him, he wasn’t ready for the moment to end, and he knew Essa. Knew that the moment she got her feet back under her, she would find the hard as nails composure she so often wore like armor.

“You—“ She didn’t quite sound as if she believed him, and that the woman had breath to argue was something of an insult. He would do better next time.

“Not that I don’t want more,” he added.

Garrett kissed her again, slow, a deep savoring inhale, an edge of teeth, as he waited for her clever mind to catch up. To realize that he had enjoyed himself almost as much as she had. She smelled too damn good, and he hadn’t had nearly as long with her as he wanted.  Fucking hell, he still couldn’t believe he was the first to ever taste her.

They were both out of their damn minds.

“I wouldn’t plan on going home tonight, Trevelyan.”  Because he didn’t plan on coming to his senses any time soon.

Essa swore at him as he eased her legs to the ground, hands splayed across her ass, barely containing the flare of firm curves. He swept his thumbs beneath lace, thought too hard about spreading her across his sheets in nothing but those scraps of crimson.

“Can you stand?” Garrett tried not to sound too smug about it, realized he had failed when she flailed one foot at him without making contact.

“If I could,” she retorted, fingers scrabbling lightly against the wall behind her. “I’d kick your ass for asking.”

“Fair enough.”

For a moment, Garrett could only stare up at her.

“You’re something else, you know that Trevelyan?”

Essa leaned back against crumbling brick of the tavern, somehow looking all the more dangerous for being half undone. The crisp lines of her suit jacket were open, black framing a blue silk shirt partially unbuttoned to reveal more crimson lace. He hadn’t expected that.  Down at the gym, everything about the woman was sharp and practical. The first time they had sex she had been wearing nothing fancier than grey cotton.

“Hush.” Her lips curved in a smile, but she didn’t open her eyes. “I’m too fond of you at the moment, and I know that’s just the endorphins.”

Her cheeks were flushed with not yet fading passion, lipstick another crimson smear, and her skirt was still up around her waist. The ends of her garters flashed silver in the lowlight, stockings slouching toward the tops of her knees.  Maker’s breath, the woman was stunning. Garrett couldn’t remember the last time he had seen someone look quite so pleased with themselves…or him.  

A bit of mercy there, to find something so blighted uncomplicated between them. It had been too long since he had anything or anyone uncomplicated in his life.

“Probably.” The admission surprised a laugh from him.  “I suppose we did well enough, given the time limitation.”

He wasn’t fishing for compliments. He had proof enough of her appreciation. He watched the rise of her breasts as she took a deep breath, held it for a moment before letting it out in a slow stream of smoke. Essa was heat and fire and danger, and some of that was literal. He wondered how close she had come to losing control beneath his lips.

“I didn’t actually believe you on the two minutes.” She shook her head, dark hair barely mussed and catching in the light. Her smile threatened to broaden before she fought it back. “But it’s a good thing you were right. I’m going to need the rest of my break to get my legs back under me.”

Essa opened her eyes to glare down at him, blue embers slowly banking amid so much grey.

“And that’s as much praise as you’re getting tonight.”

A lie, that--though she might not yet realize it--and in some ways more than he deserved. He shouldn’t have had her out here like this, not for the first time, but that made it sound like he had a lot more say than he did. 50/50 with this one. She knew exactly what she wanted, and after six months of trading punches with her in the gym with her, Garrett knew she could more than take the punishment necessary to get it.

“Fucking hell.” Her eyes went wide, flush becoming very much a blush. He watched in fascination as a deep rose splotched down her neck and chest. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Essa fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a handkerchief with one shaking hand, and caught the streak of blood down her fingers.

“Andraste’s ass, I’m a mess.”

Her cheeks were well and bright now, and Garrett couldn’t resist letting her twist a little; he had never claimed to be a good man.

“You are,” he agreed, ducking closer when Essa swatted at him. He was still crouched before her and his chest brushed her legs, chin brushing across her hip. Her hand landed on the back of his head and she tugged lightly on his hair, something caught between reward and punishment he was sure. “I rather like you this way.”

“By the Mabari,” she swore. “I really do hate you, Hawke.”

He took the handkerchief from her, could feel the weight of her scowl on the nape of his neck as he bent to dry to her thighs, the short dark hair still gleaming wetly in the murky yellow of a security light. Essa flinched beneath the gentle touch, but he ignored that too, reaffixing her stockings, pretending that he wasn’t surprised with how steady his hands were on the delicate fastenings.  Refusing to wonder why he was.

“I know.”

The bruise on her thigh was bright and purpling, and he could count no few marks from his teeth. Garrett rubbed his cheek against her and she pulled his hair, harder this time. He wanted to kiss her again, nearly did, taking a slow, deep breath just before he remembered that they did not have time for such indulgence.

“Later,” he said again, lips a whisper from her sex.

“Fine.”

The woman rallied like a champion. She shoved him away with one knee to his chest, jerked her skirt back down into place. She didn’t ask for her underwear back, though her gaze flicked once to his pocket.

“Incentive you said.”

And maybe a bit of self-torture. Knowing that she was going to spend the next hour or so walking around without them was going to drive him crazy.

“Something like that.”

Garrett watched her game face descend, the smoke in her eyes hardening to flint. She didn’t ask for her underwear back, but when he stood—close enough to crowd her—she snagged the handkerchief from his hand.

“You’re a bit of a mess too,” she said, a self-satisfied grin curving her lips.

“Yes, I am.”

*

Essa lifted the handkerchief toward his face, the white square flashing too much like surrender in the night. Garrett dodged, mischief flashing in the depths of his gaze. She glared at him, reached up with her other hand to grab his chin, and hold it steady. His grin was bright, lips still gleaming from her, and she still couldn’t quite believe he had driven her to a screaming orgasm in a pair of soaring, strumming minutes on the side stoop of The Hanged Man.

“You--”

He kissed her before she could reprove him for the smirk, or treat his face to the same disconcerting care he had just shown her. Essa gasped, froze, breath filled with the scent of her arousal, her climax, still clinging to his beard. He gave her that single breath before licking into her mouth. She tasted bourbon and sex, heat and musk, and for a moment she could only cling to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other a too-tight grasp on his face. Her fingertips sank into his beard and he groaned, turning his cheek into that rough grip, as if asking for greater punishment. Essa’s hands shook as she fought for another breath.

“Tre—“ Garrett started to pull away, and she knew he was going to check on her again.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, too sharply.

It was to his credit that he was concerned, but the last thing Essa wanted to talk about right now was her lack of experience, or the tumult of her most recent. She was much more interested in the lust that built so easily between them, in how everything in her burned bright and fast, but not out of control. He made her reckless. Made her want to push them both to see what she could take, what she could have. For so long she had never dared to believe she could have anything. Not after Diar, not after her magic nearly killed him, and any chance she had at a normal life.

“You are--” Garrett’s lips teased hers and she whimpered. Dear, sweet mabari, she didn’t think she had ever experienced anything quite so erotic as the tangle of flavors on his tongue.  “--much more than fine.”

Essa kissed him, hard, fast, her teeth clashing against his, mouth open, and tongue seeking. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close, crushing her breasts against the broad expanse of his chest. The buttons on her shirt dug into her ribs, futile reminder that she had lost all reason. Garrett shoved the silk aside. When he grazed the lace cups of her bra with callus-roughened fingers, she murmured gratitude against his teeth.

“You’re certain about that later part?”

She had never come up against anyone she didn’t worry about hurting, but Garrett was something else. They were so much the same, fighters, warriors, steel and fire and bodies forged for battle. She made a little sound, something needy and wanton that she didn’t want to think about and he hummed back in affirmation, slowed the bite of her kiss to something maddeningly patient, kissed her with the same deft languor he had already inflicted upon more desperate lips.

“No.”

Essa stretched up on her toes, one hand catching his tie, holding that band of silk in her fist as she fought him for a better angle, body arching against his. Garrett stepped forward, not that there was a step left between them, and the arm he banded behind her back lifted her almost to where she wanted to be. His erection pressed against her, the soft fabric of his suit a scratch against over-wrought flesh.

“Fuck me, Trevelyan, you feel too damn good.”

She didn’t quite recognize the sound that escaped her throat. Essa reached down between them to stroke him once with the flat of her palm.

“I’m trying to talk you into it,” she muttered.

He thrust against her hand, caught the tip of her tongue with his lips and sucked lightly, a reminder of what he could do when he put his mouth elsewhere. And by the Maker, she wanted his mouth elsewhere again. The combined sensation shot down her spine like lightning, hot and bright as it blazed in a searing arc down to her still throbbing clit, left the rest of her feeling too open, and too empty.

“In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Garrett broke their kiss with a chuckle. “And you’re doing a fine job.”

He was breathing hard, lips swollen sweetly. One big hand was spread wide against her side, the other teased at the hem of her skirt, and Essa offered thanks to anyone who was listening as he caught her behind the knee, lifted her leg so that when he thrust against her again, he drove her knuckles back against her sex.

“Too fine a job,” he amended, lips twisting in regret.

“Mixed signals, Hawke.”

She nipped at his frown, sipped another taste of them from his lips as she drew her hand out from between them, hissing as the crush of their bodies dragged her hand against her with a dizzying wave of pleasure. Garrett’s forehead bumped hers, and when she looked up there was laughter dancing atop the shadows in his eyes.

“We don’t have time—“

Essa bounced lightly on her toes, the only warning she gave him before she lifted her other leg, wrapped them both around his waist. He took her weight with both hands, fingers lighter this time, as if he knew she carried blue-back imprints on her body, but didn’t realize how much she liked them. He kissed his way to her ear, turned her face away from him with a bump of his chin.

“--for all the things I want from you, Trevelyan.”

The admission was strained, every word clipped against the stretch of tendons, and she yearned for every possibility at once. Garrett rocked against her, rhythm slow, easy, picking up from the beat behind the door.His teeth grazed a sharp, stinging line down to her pulse and he leaned into her, shoving her back harder against the wall. She was still shocked at how much she liked the rough edge of pain mixed with sex. Her first experiences--at least until the flames and the fright--hadn’t been necessarily gentle, but they had been sweet, tempered. Discovery and no small amount of wonder. What she was finding with Garrett was something else entirely. She still had bruises from their first time—she had bruises now—and Andraste, preserve her, she saw every spot of color as some sort of personal accomplishment. Sex was too much like fighting for her not to.

“Later you said.”

The brick bit into her shoulders and she reached to adjust the revolver tucked against the small of her back. Essa lifted her hips, rubbed herself brazenly against his cock. Maker’s breath, she didn’t need much and she would orgasm again.

“Yes.” The word was a growl; Garrett drew an unsteady breath. “I mostly meant it too.”

He didn’t now. There was laughter in his voice--bright beneath the brutal edge of desire--and no small amount of self-mockery. For the first time in too long, Essa thought maybe someone understood a little of what she was.

“I know.” Essa had five minutes—if that—before she had to be back inside. There weren’t many songs left, but then there was closing up, getting the band and their inevitable hangers-on outside before Corff forgot how much he liked the money and started pitching people out into the street. “And I need to get back.”

“I know.”

But she rolled her hips toward him again and Garrett caught the timing with a smirk, gripped her ass hard enough to punish and thrust against her with astonishing precision.

“Fuck,” Essa gasped, the edge orgasm bursting bright behind her eyelids.

Fuck. She had responsibilities, she had—

Nothing but a zipper, two buttons, and whatever he was wearing beneath his trousers between them.

“I don’t care,” she muttered, reaching between them again. “I want you. Now.”

She turned her face up for a rough kiss. “Tell me you don’t care.”

The words were a challenge, a dare. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, bit down hard enough that his cock twitched against her. Garrett liked a little pain too.

“I don’t care,” he breathed against her lips.

“Tell me you have a condom.”

Garrett laughed, the sound bourbon-dark and rich as it twined with the music behind them.

“I do.” He arched a brow. “You don’t?”

She’d had one the other night, surprised him enough to leave him gasping for a breath. She’d liked that, seeing the Champion of Kirkwall knocked sideways by her boldness.

“Believe it or not,” Essa chuckled. “I hadn’t planned on fucking you tonight.”

“Well, now.” He dipped his head down, razed her collarbone with his teeth, beard scratching bright and scarlet across her skin. “That would have been a blighted shame.”

“Yes, it would have.”

She managed one button before someone started banging on the door beside her head.

“Trevelyan!”

They groaned together.

“Dammit.” Essa sagged against him in defeat, chin bumping his shoulder.

Garrett laughed, eased her down, yanked her skirt back into place as the door bumped against her back, a crack of greater darkness and so much noise.

“We need you in here,” one of the other bouncers--she thought it might be Jamie but couldn’t quite be sure, hollered over the beat of a kick drum.

The music was picking up, one last adrenaline spiking song and the crowd would disperse into the summer night, high on each other.

“Alright, I’m coming.” Garrett winged a brow at her, his hands moving swiftly over the buttons on her shirt. Essa snickered. “Well, I was.”

She flashed him a grin. “And thanks for that.”

“Any time.” He kissed her hard and spun her toward the door. “Sooner rather than later.”

“Better get upstairs then.”

She glanced over her shoulder, waggled her brows at him. He had the nerve to smack her on the ass.

Essa yelped, resisted the urge to rub away the sting and instead kicked back at him with one foot.

“Start hydrating, Hawke.” She let her gaze travel down his body. “And don’t you dare take care of that without me.”

The surprise on his face was worth the bravado she hadn’t quite felt, standing half in, half out the tavern on legs that she still couldn’t trust. His bark of laughter warmed her more than it should have. Essa let the door close between them so he wouldn’t hear her giggling as she headed back across the bar.


	4. More Than Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A part of the First Taste arc that started with Love You To Death. Not terribly NSFW? Because in the middle of a smut arc these two decided to have a long, reasonable adult conversation (about Anders. about sex. and about Essa’s magic) that they’ll later deny ever having. I'm sorry...they...*runs hands through already frazzled hair* they just wouldn’t shut up! 

As nights went, this one was looking like one for the books. Essa slipped out of her jacket, set it carefully on the clean end of the bar as she hopped up onto a stool, resting tired feet. Had she been anywhere else, her shoes and stockings would have already been off. Her feet  _hurt_ , not that a woman was ever supposed to admit that, and she was dreading the walk to the station, if she ever decided to make it.

It hadn’t been a bad night. Just the opposite, in fact. She had just worked one of the wildest shows of the summer and she hadn’t had to pull a gun on anyone.   _The Hanged Man_  didn’t look any worse for wear, tables wiped down and hardwood floors mopped to something that might have once been a high-gloss shine. Corff was pleased with the relative quiet and with the night’s earnings.  Maybe it had been the music, dark, heady, teasing even the most aggressive notions toward desire. She had broken up more impromptu couplings than she had fights, been invited to a threesome, and even wound up with her legs around Garrett Hawke’s head on her break.

She only sort of wished she could blame that last on the music. Still, she was tired, and her mind was too busy, a tangle of memory and doubt brought on by clearer thinking than she had hoped for by this point in the night.

“You hanging around?” Corff asked.

He poured two fingers of whiskey into a much finer glass than Essa usually saw him sling down the bar. A lack of any major incidents had him almost cheerful and he was sharing that cheer with her. His tone was almost congenial, definitely as conversational he ever got. The crowd was gone, the band packed up, nothing left but the deep velvet echoes Essa swore she could still feel in the walls. There was an ache thrumming in the silence, something lonesome and yearning.In the quietest valleys she swore she could still hear the desperate rasp of her own voice bouncing off of the night.

“I’m sorry?”

He set the glass in front of her and she watched as light from the lone yellow overhead broke like fire through the cut imitation crystal. There was a bottle of the good stuff on the bar between them, amber spirits gleaming, casting brighter darkness against Planasene oak. Essa lifted the glass to her lips, sipped air and rising spirits but left the liquor in the bottom. She needed a stiff drink, didn’t like admitting that nor how much, and she had a mind to postpone the inevitable as long as she could.  

Corff finished counting the till, big hands nimble with years of muscle memory, the same as when he poured a drink or seven, or wiped down the bar with white towels smelling strongly of bleach. She had her own, of course, fists and fury so ingrained she didn’t recognize her hands without them, but she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to build and keep and care. There were too many builders in Kirkwall—a miracle that, some sort of fall of the Maker’s grace that kept the city from crumbling. Her sister was one, and Corff. Garrett Hawke was another, though she knew he wouldn’t think of himself that way.

Void take her, she had no business thinking of him that way either. Endorphins, she reminded herself. Wonderful little pleasure carriers, sure to addle. Having not long ago experienced the best orgasm of her life, Essa figured she was entitled to being a bit addled. Didn’t mean she couldn’t face her foolishness with both eyes open.

Corff grunted something and she realized it was the second time he had spoken.

“Too late for you to be hopping trains, Trevelyan.”

She snapped a glare across the bar and he met her gaze with an implacable shrug.  

“Not a lot I don’t know if I don’t want to.” He saluted her with a handful of cash and tilt of his chin. “Not a lot I feel I need to pass along.”

Essa nodded shortly. He would keep her secrets then. That was good for both their sakes. She didn’t have as many as most folks thought, but those she had were worth killing for. She didn’t want to threaten Corff. Couldn’t see that going anywhere but south. She liked him, appreciated the extra pay and extra hours from a house with more action than  _the Tourney_ usually gave her. Merdrat liked to think his club was a classier place than most on this side of town. Maybe it was. There was definitely more brass and fewer fights most nights. As bouncer, Essa was too often bored, but she thought that might be changing soon. The city was more restless than usual.

“Last door on the left.”  

Corff slid a key across the bar, the low scrape of steel on wood worrying Essa’s weary edges.  Most of the rooms above the tavern were permanently rented, but she knew he kept one or two free for the odd favorite customer. She wasn’t sure when she had acquired the status, but she wasn’t going to turn it down. Not tonight.

Yeah, she was glad she didn’t have to threaten Corff.

“If you even need it,” he added with a wink.

Essa took a breath, held it carefully, set her glass down so that she could stretch her arms out over the bar. She was holding tension in her shoulders, which she knew damn better than to do. Couldn’t throw a decent punch as stiff as she was. She palmed the room key, considered the merits of a hot bath and an empty bed as she slipped it into her skirt pocket.

“Corff—“

She was supposed to be meeting Garrett—Maker knew she wanted to—but the man was proving too damn clever. He’d figured out more than she had wanted him to tonight, made her face some hard truths she wasn’t ready for. She had underestimated him there, and now, despite her body’s vehement argument to the contrary, she was beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake—

“Not my business,” Corff said, interrupting a line of thought she had visited too many times in the past hour.

His lips twitched and Essa wondered how much he knew before she decided she was better off oblivious.

“Just…” He threw his bar towel into the bucket of bleach and water he had recently refreshed, yanked his apron off with a few terse movements. “He’s had a time of it the last few years.”

Essa blinked. “Are you…?”

Was he warning her off of Garrett? Corff glanced toward the stairs before she could find the nerve to ask, then shook his head, as if tossing away whatever thoughts he might next have given her.

“I’m not saying you wouldn’t be worth the trouble.” His lips lifted in something suspiciously like a smile, blue eyes flashing. “And were I younger man, I’d envy him.”

Essa hid a grin. “Thank you, Corff.”

He nodded once. “But the Hawkes—“ Corff scowled suddenly, ran one hand through his blonde hair, leaving it in a rare mess. “They don’t need trouble.”

He picked up the cash box, glared toward the stairs.

“Not that that’s my business either,” he decided sharply. “Putting this in the safe, and heading out. You did good work tonight. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Essa lifted her glass in a toast. “You’re good people Corff.”

He shot her a look of disgruntled astonishment and she grinned.

“Not that you’ll hear me passing that along.”

“You want the lights on?” he asked.

“No,” Essa chuckled ruefully. “Leave me here sitting in the dark. I’ve light if I need it.”

The last of the overheads clicked off, dusty yellow fading to umber, then black before Essa’s eyes adjusted, drew street light in from the window, leaving her alone with so much grey.

 ~*~

Garrett heard the back door to the tavern shut with Corff’s signature slam, the heavy steel banging back against its casing followed by two sharp kicks to the bottom and a jangle of keys. The doorknob rattled twice as he checked the lock behind him and then silence fell, as well and truly as it ever could in this part of the city. Garrett didn’t think he would ever get used to the unnatural quiet in the worst parts of town. Once the bars and clubs closed, the streets emptied,and  people stayed inside where they were safe. Only Essa would traipse through Lowtown alone at one am.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely certain that she wasn’t the most dangerous thing out there.

Still, if he were being honest—and now that it was just him and his ghosts, there wasn’t any reason not to be—that was the part that rankled. She could have stayed with him. He had a perfectly good couch in addition to his bed. She didn’t have to share the latter to have crashed until sunrise.  He understood that she had come to her senses, and Maker knew, he couldn’t blame her. When she fucked him in the backroom of  _the Tourney_  a week ago, he hadn’t realized she was working through a lot more than their surprisingly sexual mutual antagonism.

He still didn’t know why he’d found that surprising. The woman had a mouth on her, took exactly no shit from anyone, and her jab was fucking poetry. She wasn’t one to demur or deflect, unless she was deflecting a punch, which she usually remembered to do. She’d take one on the chin though if it got her in closer for a sweet shot. Andraste’s ass, a man could break a hand on a head that hard. Still, for all that fire, she had a cold, blue temper, slow to catch.

Once it did, she was ruthless.

It had never occurred to him that she would be…well, “innocent” didn’t seem a word she would forgive him for and “inexperienced” felt just as awkward, but that she’d had only one lover before him didn’t quite make sense to Garrett.  Especially one who’d never put their mouth on her. The man—or woman, Garrett didn’t know—had to have been a fool.  Essa was fire and fury and unfettered lust and—

Fire, he thought suddenly. Fuck. She was  _that_  Trevelyan. Stood to reason. He definitely had a type.

“And now I need a drink.”

Garrett shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his keys and a glass and headed downstairs.  He had his own booze, but he also had a perfectly good tab, and if he was going to stop staring wistfully at his bed and picturing Essa sprawled across it, a change of scenery would do him some good.  The tavern was cooler anyway, the big room yawning black, a few rectangles of street-lit night slanting through the windows in dusky yellow across the hardwood floor. He didn’t bother with the lights. There weren’t a lot of places Garrett felt safe anymore, but the  _Hanged Man—_ especially after hours—was about as good as it got. His family home still didn’t quite feel like much of one. Not that it was really habitable yet anyway.

“ _What—_ “ Her voice was slow and smoky, and she drawled the world out deliberately as if she were giving him a chance to get over the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone. “Are you wearing on your feet? You sound like a herd of nugs.”

Garrett smiled.  “Nugs?”

“The giant ones,” Essa muttered from the end of the bar.

“Bethany threatened to do something unfortunate to my favorite appendage if she ever caught me down here barefooted,” Garrett explained, clomping across the floor. “Something about germs and taverns and me not walking around like a backwoods hick.”

She laughed. “I forget you two grew up on a farm.”

There was a hint of longing in her voice; Garrett wondered if she had a clue what farm life entailed.

“I’m not entirely sure that she could render me impotent,” he continued bellying up to the bar beside her. He could feel the heat coming from her body, but she was cooler than she had been. Shit, she really was that Trevelyan. “But I’m not entirely sure she couldn’t.”

“And that—“

She was nothing but a dangerous silhouette beside him, the light from the nearest window too far too illuminate more than the darker edges of the night. He watched her lips part the shadows as she lifted her glass, swallowed what smelled like a much finer whiskey than Corff usually poured.  They must have had a good haul.

“ —would be a damned shame.”

Her fingers brushed across his thigh, so light that for a moment he was certain he’d imagined it.

“I thought maybe you had changed your mind.” He slid onto the stool beside her, sat still and quiet for a moment, their shoulders touching and nothing else.

“I probably should.”  She sighed. “You drinkin’?”

“I came down for a glass of bourbon,” he admitted.

“Light.”

He didn’t know quite what to make of the warning, but then one of the tea lights Corff sometimes kept on the bar flared to life, flame dancing behind a thin glass shade. The casual use of magic surprised him, and he realized it was a dare. Her jacket and guns were on the bar beside her and she’d rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. She was still wearing her hat, and for some reason the jaunty slant of the black trilby made him smile.

“You’ve been figuring a lot out tonight.” Essa didn’t sound as if she were happy about that. She turned, boosted herself up onto the bar, and stared down at him. “You ready to say it out loud so we can get back to knocking each other around at Ricky’s?”

She was backpedaling, which made sense enough he supposed. The fire yearned toward her, golden flame kissing the glass as if it could reach her. Essa let out a slow breath and it righted, smoldered low against white wax.

“I didn’t realize you were—“

“ _That_ Trevelyan?” she snorted, but there was no humor in the flat grey of her eyes. “Hold my legs.”

She leaned back across the space behind the bar, body extending in a graceful line, muscles bunching and shifting beneath a cling of cobalt silk. She wore crimson beneath, a delicate lace he hadn’t been expecting and if she was backpedaling, he sure as hell wasn’t. Garrett caught her legs, balancing her weight with heavy palms, fingers splaying wide against her thighs.

“Bourbon right?” Her fingers traveled back and forth on the edge of the middle shelf, waiting for him to choose.

“The Red Raven is fine.”

Essa caught the bottom of the square bottle, inched it forward until it pitched. She snagged it on the drop, curled up so quick she nearly clocked him with it.

“Sorry,” she muttered, leaning back a little. “I didn’t realize you were so close.”

Garrett smiled. “I hadn’t really planned on going anywhere, Trevelyan.”

He put just a hint of emphasis on her name, swept his thumbs beneath the hem of her skirt as she set the bottle down.

“I should have told you the other night.” She reached up, yanked a wicked looking pin from her hat and dropped both to the bar with her jacket. “For what it’s worth, you were safe then.”

“’Then’?”  That last sounded a little ominous.

Her lips tugged into a mocking smile. “I don’t think I have to worry about my fire during quick encounters.”

Garrett clutched his chest, rocked back on the stool as if he’d been shot. The smile in her eyes was worth the theatrics. She kicked him in the knee and he caught her ankle, held fast when she started to pull away.

“I don’t want your apology.” He could see in her eyes that she felt guilty for keeping a secret he had no right to. Essa was straightforward to a fault, made them all wonder what she was doing in Kirkwall. Garrett ran his fingers over sheer silk stockings, teased her ankle on his way down the smooth leather of her pump. “But I’ll admit I’m curious.”

He slipped her shoe off, set it on the stool she had vacated. Her gaze was stormy, not entirely trusting. No one ever said Essa wasn’t a smart woman.

“What do you want to know?”

She licked her lips, and he thought about kissing her. When she reached for her glass, Garrett took the distraction for the mercy it probably was.

“Whatever you think I should.”

He wanted to know everything. He was curious by nature, and his work only made him more so, but whatever she chose to tell him, he wanted the words freely given.  Essa wasn’t a case or client. He didn’t know what she was, but he would give her the same courtesy he gave his friends. Garrett opened the bottle of bourbon, poured three fingers into his favorite glass.

“Ice?” She lifted a chunk from her empty glass, brow raised in askance.

“It has whiskey on it.” He didn’t actually care, but she was too easy to tease, and she always gave as good as she got.

Essa lifted the ice to her lips, sucked it into her mouth nice and slow, the tip of her tongue flicking out over red lips. Garrett grinned up at her, ran the hard curve of his thumb against the arch of her foot and watched her sputter and cough.

“Not funny, you ass.” But she was laughing as she spit the ice into her hand. “You want this or not?”

“I reckon it’s better than warm bourbon.” He held out his glass and Essa dropped the ice in before reaching back for her own.

The glug of whiskey was short, a few sips to sooth her throat, he guessed.  She hadn’t tried to pull her foot from him again. Garrett held her ankle loosely with one hand, swirled bourbon and ice with the other, and for a few quiet breaths the only sound in the room was the clink of ice on glass.

“Most of the rumors are just rumors,” Essa said.

She wasn’t looking at him, but she was still close, the outside of one leg pressed against his arm, toes curling against his thigh.

“My magic came late, and in the middle of one of my first sexual encounters. He was largely unharmed and a decent enough guy that he didn’t call the reds.”

She made it sound so simple that he almost believed her, but Garrett wasn’t certain about that “decent enough guy” part, not with the shadows in her face. He took a swallow of bourbon and kept his own council. Essa didn’t seem the type to appreciate his sentiment.

“You said you loved him.”

She glared at him. “Did I?”

No. She hadn’t. Not exactly.

“ _Look it was romance before, love and all the sad, trite songs,” and Essa’s chin lifted in defiance._

“Close enough.”

He turned his attention to her foot again, began kneading against the tension she carried just below her toes. She flinched beneath his touch, but the little moan that echoed off the walls of her glass was a victory anthem.

“I did.” The words were muffled and then the glass clunked down. Her hands came forward, gripped the edge of the bar beside her knees. “Maybe I just thought I did. I don’t know. Didn’t much matter once I caught his bed on fire.”

If that was all it took for the man to leave her, then she was better off without him, but he kept that bit of wisdom to himself. She glared down at him, as if somehow she’d heard him anyway. Garrett hid his face behind the bottom of his glass.

“Then what?” He set his knuckles against the curl of her toes and she hummed a little, forgiveness in the sound that rumbled in her throat.

“Then I went to the Circle in Ostwick. Faced my demons, passed my harrowing.”

He wanted to ask what she had faced, but that was not a question for sparring partners or fuck buddies, and he damn sure wasn’t looking for more than that.

“And now?” he asked. He set her right foot down in his lap and reached for her left, tugging until she scooted over directly in front of him.

Her knees opened slightly, not enough to offer more than a glimpse of shadows, but her underwear—a scrap of lace as distracting as the rest of her—were upstairs in his jacket pocket. Those shadows were enticing enough.

“And now I’m here,” she added, a touch sharply. “Sincerely hoping that we’re through with the talking about my past portion of the evening.”

He could understand that, and yet. “You were the one who said you should have told me,” he reminded her.

“I know.” She reached again for her drink, toes moving restlessly against his thigh. Desire, bright as flame, shot straight to his cock. “I don’t know. I just—“

She sighed. “You’re the first since him, and I didn’t think there was any danger or I wouldn’t have touched you, but looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have kept something like that from a sex partner.”

“I—“ Garrett liked to think that he wasn’t often struck speechless. “You—“

Fucking hell. She couldn’t be serious. If he had known—

Her toes curled in a pinch against his leg and she gritted her teeth at him. “Whatever you’re thinking, Hawke. Stop it. I’ve cut myself off after this drink, which means my patience won’t be far behind it.”

“How long?” he asked, not caring that it was a question she wouldn’t want to answer.

“How long what?”

“Since you’d had sex before the other night.”

She kicked at his hands, and he let her go. For a moment Garrett thought she’d push past him.

“Three years, alright?” When he said nothing—who the hell went three years without sex?—she kicked him again, settled back in front of him, close enough to kiss, a scowl on her face. “Look, I can take care of myself—”

Because that was a mental image he absolutely needed.

“Had to learn myself and my limits.” Her eyes flashed with challenge.

“Oh, I’m going to want to know all about that.” He licked his lips, didn’t bother hiding his smirk when she tracked the motion, pupils spinning wide.

“I had to know if I was ever going to be able trust myself enough to be with another person.”

Which had brought her to him. He could understand, and it wasn’t as if she was first lover he’d had for whom the sex had been more about working through something than wanting him.

“And we made it unscathed.” He toasted her with his bourbon.

“We did.” Essa sat back, feet brushing against his knees

“Tonight as well.”

A shame really, that she’d gotten the answers she wanted so quickly. Garrett shifted her feet toward his knees, expecting that he would soon have to let her go.

“I don’t know if I’d count tonight.” The words were thin and he remembered smoke curling from her lips as she stood trembling above him.

“Is that why I found you down here, nursing a bottle of Corff’s best whiskey?”

“Maybe.” She burrowed her feet back under his hands and Garrett smiled, took the silent plea for what it was and began rubbing her feet again. “Rumor has it you’ve had your heart broken too.”

She stared over his head, a consideration he realized, more than avoidance. She had just given him her secrets, but she demanded none in return.

“I’m not looking for anything complicated,” Essa said, distantly. “We have good chemistry. We work well together in the ring.”

She shook her head. “And you’re a glorious flirt, Garrett Hawke.” She grinned and he grinned back. “I thought you’d be in for some fun.”

“Never let it be said that I’m not.”

~*~

The mischief in his dark eyes seemed brighter than the candlelight. Garrett found a particular spot on her foot, pressed down hard enough that Essa gasped.

“Fuck!”

A shudder wracked her body, pleasure shooting up from her foot to more restless landscapes. Essa clutched the edge of the bar, hands tightening to fists to keep from falling forward into his lap.

“How did—?”

His fingers danced along her aching instep, alternating gentle strokes with not-so-gentle pressure. Dear, sweet, Mabari! Had he not already proven the contrary, she would have sworn nothing in Thedas could feel so good.

“I take it you never found that spot while you were—“ He smiled slyly up at her. “How’d you put it? Learning yourself and finding your limits.“

“No.” Essa kicked him with her other foot. She had never even considered that such sensations could be found in her foot. “Can’t say I ever thought to check there.”

He walked his fingers up slowly, each leading the next from foot to her ankle, dancing whispers across shockingly sensitive skin.

“I’m thinking you’ve a lot of neglected real estate, Trevelyan.”

He leaned toward her, his deep voice falling lower, a near tactile caress as his breath brushed her lips. Essa shifted her feet with a grin.

“That’s exactly what I was planning on remedying.”

The foot Garrett was holding was harmless enough, but the other stroked along his zipper, toes curling against his cock. He was half-hard already, getting harder, and he startled beneath her bold touch, moved slightly in his seat until his erection was pressed firmly against the bottom of her foot. Essa’s breath shuddered out.

“Obviously, I’m game.” His hair was an unruly mess, one lock had fallen over his forehead and she was itching to brush it back. He grinned, quick and brazen, gave a toss of his head that only made matters worse. “What exactly is it that you want?”

She wanted to slide down from the bar, straddle his lap, and see how much abuse that old bar stool could handle before it tipped them both to the floor.

“I want…”  

She wanted to not think, to not have to talk and worry about everything, but that wasn’t fair. Not with her magic involved. Essa sighed, finally reached to brush his hair back. Garrett eyed her with suspicion, but that was fine. She didn’t trust them at the moment either.

“I guess I just want to see what I can take.”

He made a strangled noise, cheeks puffing slightly above his beard as he fought to hold back a smart ass remark. It was an admirable struggle; she knew him well enough to guess what he was going to offer she take.

“Ass.”  

Garrett’s grin was remorseless, and Essa stroked him again, hard. Reward, punishment, she wasn’t sure. He didn’t seem to mind either way.

“I am.”

But he was still waiting for the rest of her answer, and damn them both, she knew she owed him—owed both of them—her words.

“I  _want_  to be right about my magic being under control.”

Essa stared past his shoulder. The darkness behind him seemed heavier for the fine, flickering circle of candlelight around them.  She took a deep breath, offered him what she hoped was a cheeky smile.

“I’d very much like to prove that by fucking around with you. At least until one of us gets bored.” She smirked, as if her admissions were of no consequence, could only pray he wouldn’t hear more than she was willing to say. “And it’d be nice if when we did, we could leave with less baggage than we started. Or at least no more.”

Essa sat back, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, tried and failed to drag his gaze from hers. Silence fell heavy between them and she watched his eyes narrow.

“You have to be--” Garrett shook his head. He was still holding her foot with one hand. He reached up with the other, tapped her temple with light fingertips. “Is there any duplicity in there at all?”

She wasn’t surprised by the look of exasperation on his face. She was too honest for Kirkwall, had been told so more than once and by more than him in the year she’d been here.

“Not much.” She managed a tight smile. “But this open and honest bit is a one night only deal. Monday I’m going back to monosyllables and jabs.”

Maker, she couldn’t afford to let anyone this close, and certainly not Garrett Hawke. They might share connections, but he was in constant trouble with the brass and reds, trouble she needed to avoid if she was ever going to find those responsible for her brother’s descent into red lyrium and madness.

“More than fair,” he grunted. “This is probably more trouble than either of us need.”

Well, Essa thought. At least they were on the same page there.

“But—“ Garrett sighed suddenly, stared into his empty glass with a frown. She watched him pour himself another drink, shook her head when he offered to do the same for her.  “I gotta know...”

“What?”

“Why me?”  

There was no humility in the question—false or otherwise—but the frank curiosity was somehow worse. Essa had expected an ego like Garrett’s to make her choice about him, had damn near counted on it. One look at the man and no one would think she needed any reason other than good old fashioned lust.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never seen mirror,” Essa said dryly. “I’ve caught you preening more than once.”

If Essa had a type, it was fighters. Muscles honed from use more than iron. He had the shoulders of a swimmer, broad enough for her thighs—and fuck her, that was a memory that was going to linger—but he didn’t carry any unnecessary bulk. Oh, Garrett lifted plenty, had the arms to prove it. She had spent far too much time thinking about sinking her teeth into his biceps.

“Maybe I,” he drawled slow and sweet behind a sip of bourbon. “Don’t think you’re quite that shallow.”

Essa leered at him, ran both feet over muscular thighs with a little hum of appreciation. “I’m absolutely that shallow.”

Garrett chuckled. “You’re also—“

He set his glass down, caught one foot in each hand, and before she could anticipate the move, he leaned forward to catch her lips in a kiss somewhere between friendly and taunting. Essa’s breath stuttered to stillness before she caught it up again.

“A terrible liar.”

“I am,” she agreed. “But honestly, this is partly why.”

She gestured to his lips, then to hers. “We’re easy. My body likes your body, I like my body even more when it’s knocking you around in one way or another.”

Essa grinned, quick and mean and Garrett grinned too.

“Alright,” he conceded.  “I’ll give you those. I like knocking you around one way or another too.”

He took a slow breath. “But we both know that isn’t the whole of it.”

“And you want the whole of it.” It was her luck, Essa supposed.

“I do.”

He was watching her too closely, waiting, wondering. His instincts were good. Of course there was more, but that didn’t mean she wanted the worry of telling him.

“I misread you,” Essa apologized abruptly.

She reached for the candle, extinguished the small flame with a wave of her hand, plunging them toward truer darkness. The light from the window slanted in, dusty and yellow, but it wouldn’t be of much use until their eyes adjusted. He didn’t call her on her cowardice. She wondered if he was hiding too.

“Did you?” Garrett asked quietly.

She read him too well in the ring. They had a nice habit of being a step ahead of the other. It made them work harder. Six months of trading punches had turned them both into better fighters, but she had been wrong when she thought he’d take her to bed without questions. More wrong to think that he should.

“Maybe?”

Essa reached up to tug the pins from her hair, nervous energy in her hands. She dropped each one to the bar beside her, soft clacks in the late night quietude. The only sound aside from their breathing was the slow rotation of the overhead fans. Shadows hung close, but already she could see too much. 

She thanked the Maker the window was behind her, hoped Garrett couldn’t see more than she wanted.

“I didn’t expect you to be so blighted talkative at any rate.”

The quip fell flat. Garrett’s smile—always so quick and easy, and unapologetic—didn’t quite rise above his lips. Essa sighed, reached up to rub her eyes until she could only see spots of light and dark and fatigue.

“Honestly?” she asked on a huff.

“A nice start,” he murmured.

He released her feet, and she started to pull away.

“Don’t.”

The command was soft; she wanted to defy him on principle, wanted to acquiesce for some nameless other reason, and that just unsettled her more. She could feel him watching her over the rim of his glass. Essa didn’t think that there were many lies between them—secrets sure, but not outright falsehoods. Still there wasn’t a lot of truth either.

“You’re no stranger to volatile mages.”

Garrett’s bark of laughter was bleak and mirthless. She stared through the press of umber, pupils reaching greedily for more light. He took a long swallow of bourbon, leveled a glare at her with more heat than she was expecting.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve a gift for understatement, Trevelyan?”

His face was a study in light and shadow, planes and angles dusky bright and brutally dark, but something deeper than the night shifted in his shrouded gaze. He lifted his chin in a challenge she didn’t quite understand.

“I didn’t—“ Essa broke off roughly, words catching on a sudden lurch of intuition. “Your last…?”

She let the question pool, open and endless. He answered with an abrupt toast, bourbon sloshing toward the rim of his glass before he took another drink.

“Yeah. My  _last,_ ” he replied, words clipped with a finality she couldn’t help but share.

Essa wasn’t looking for another heartbreak either, not that she was admitting to the first one. Just sex, as uncomplicated as she could get it considering everything she brought with her.

“I didn’t know.”

She wasn’t one for compunction, and yet she had already apologized to him twice this evening. Essa ran her hands through her hair, easing wide curls down toward her shoulders, rubbing tension from her scalp. This thing with Garrett had been a bad idea, she realized.

“Then…?” His brows drew down in confusion.

“You’ve fought mages before,” she reminded him. They’d encounter several together in the last few weeks, working for the Underground. “I trust—“

The word was heavy on her tongue, turned bitter as wormwood beneath his impassive regard. Essa reached for his glass, fingers fumbling against his before she took his last swallow of bourbon with a grimace.

“You trust...” Garrett prompted--slowly--as if he didn’t really want to know, but wasn’t about to let her go without the telling.

Essa shrugged, jerked her gaze from the darkness between them.

“I trust you could stop me.”

She reached for his hand, drew it up to her neck and wrapped strong fingers in a lax grip around her throat. His hand easily encompassed most of her neck, thumb and fingers a motionless cage around her pounding pulse, broad palm warm against her windpipe and esophagus. There was no small amount of damage waiting behind even the briefest display of strength.

“You think I could kill you.”

She’d offended him. Fair. She was a little annoyed that he’d jumped straight to the conclusion of killing her.

“I think you could get my attention,” Essa retorted, blowing a raspberry at him. “I’m not worried about possession, you ass. Just casting without meaning to.”

She felt him move, pulled her feet up and caught her balance as his stool scraped back across the floor. The night rushed between them, sudden and cool.

“You’re something else, Essa Trevelyan.”

He didn’t make it sound anything like a compliment. Essa laughed shortly.

“Look, Hawke, I get it.” She grabbed her shoes, slipped them on with a silent whimper before she hopped down. “I fucked up.”

Essa shrugged back into her holster and jacket, scraped her hairpins into the bowl of her hat.

“I didn’t know about—“

She grabbed the bottle of whiskey for good measure, tucked it under her arm and felt around for her glass, watched as his strides took him farther into the dark.

“Anders,” he said, the name spoken so low and with such regret it was nearly a growl.

Fuck her. He had been with  _that_ volatile mage. No wonder Corff had tried to warn her off. Essa took a slow breath, tried to reel in every careening thought.

“Anders,” she continued carefully.

Shit. Cari had tried to warn her too, though much more subtly. She had said only that the man was trouble. Essa wasn’t the only Trevelyan with the dubious gift for understatement.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed in frustration. “And I am not one for apologizing so you’d better write it down. If you feel you owe me a punch, I’ll take it on the chin.”

“I don’t want to hit you.” Garrett’s exhale was just as weary.

Essa nodded, even knowing he couldn’t see her.  She didn’t much feel like punching anyone either. Not even him.

“I’m going up to bed. Corff gave me a room, last door on the left if you change your mind about decking me.” She chuckled, then cringed at the forced sound. “Expiration on that offer, by the way. Tomorrow I’m going to forget tonight ever happened.”

“All of tonight?” he asked. There was a hint of his usual swagger, and Mabari, help her, the words danced right down her spine.

Essa didn’t think she would ever forget the feel of his mouth moving over her, but that wasn’t a conversation they were going to have. “If you want me to.”

“It’d be a discredit to my ego if I said yes.”

She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly he was there, one hand gripping her chin.

“You’re trying to give me an out.”

Essa snorted. “I thought we’d both come to our senses,” she countered. “Too much of the worst kind of trouble between us, I think.”

“I thought you liked trouble.”

She could feel the heat from his lips. They hovered above hers, a thrum of negligible space between them.

“I do like trouble,” she breathed. Her arms were full, or she would have already dragged him down into a kiss.

“So do I.” He brushed her nose with his, withdrew before she could catch his lips with hers.

“Even the kind I’m sure to bring?”

His hand trailed from her chin to her throat, a faint caress before warm fingers wrapped firmly around her neck. Garrett squeezed gently, not quite hard enough to steal her breath, but Essa’s heart stumbled just the same. She licked suddenly parched lips.

“Especially the kind you’re sure to bring.”

She could taste the bourbon on his breath, but still, he didn’t kiss her. Essa made a noise low in her throat and his fingers curled around the sound.

“Hawke…”

“Yes?” He brushed her lips with his—a tease, a promise—held her back with careful pressure when she tried to lean closer.

“This is a bad idea.” She swallowed against his palm.

“It was a bad idea before we talked,” he argued. “It’s a slightly better idea now.”

“I thought we were going to forget this talk.”

“We can  _pretend_  we didn’t have this talk,” he countered. “That’s different.”

It was.  And Maker, forgive her, it didn’t seem quite as bad an idea as it had five minutes ago.


	5. Tough Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 4 of The First Taste arc. Clearly there were no feelings here. Not these jerks. NEW WORK. Just published on tumblr 7/11/2017

“Trevelyan.”

Garrett wasn’t actually certain what to say next, and he wasn’t accustomed to having his tongue tied behind his teeth.  _Are you sure about this?_ Just made him sound like a coward, and she’d give him shit for that for weeks.  _You don’t have to do this_  was even worse. Of course she didn’t. Essa Trevelyan didn’t do fuck all she didn’t want to do. Still, until the night before he hadn’t realized she was as inexperienced as she was—good thing too or he would have passed on what was rapidly climbing the ranks of some of the best sex he’d ever had—but Garrett definitely wasn’t certain how to go about being so many of someone’s firsts.

He wasn’t a firsts kind of guy. Maker’s breath! He didn’t like thinking about his own. Too many strings, too much fumbling, too many ways hearts got involved. He wasn’t interested in doling out that kind of pain, damn sure wasn’t interested in getting anymore banged up than he already was. He was always good for a romp, but he wasn’t the fellow anyone put that sort trust in, wasn’t the type someone waited for.

Not that Essa was the type who waited for much.

“Having second thoughts?” she asked.

There was laughter in her voice, but Essa didn’t look up and without her gaze as confirmation, Garrett wasn’t certain how annoyed she was with him.

“I most certainly am not,” Garrett muttered indignantly. He hadn’t lost his blighted mind in the last ten minutes—hour—eternity—that was for certain.  

“Because, I don’t recall asking you—” She was sitting  on the floor before him, crouched on the balls of her feet, and she was still wearing her damn shirt, every button undone to reveal a crimson lace bra that Garrett had to admit he really liked against her sun-bronzed skin, but couldn’t he have actually gotten her naked this time?   “—for more than your consent, Hawke.”

She tapped his knee with one fingertip, and his pulse leapt in time to that measured beat. For all intents and purposes, his body should have been relatively sated. They’d had sex twice last night, then again after they had awoken late this morning. Each time had been more thorough and less hurried than the last. He didn’t think he had gotten enough of her, but he shouldn’t have been about to jump out of his skin now.

“When I gave it,” Garrett grunted, sliding down in his chair and resisting the urge to narrow the wide sprawl of his legs, “I didn’t think you’d be giving me a medical exam.”

A look of horrifying mischief crossed her face. Essa waggled two fingers at him, one brow lifting in query.

“No,” he said, as flatly as he could manage. Garrett lifted his glass from the arm of the chair, took a gulp of what he was absolutely not admitting was courage.

Essa snickered. “I’ve read—“

“Stop right there.” Maker’s breath, the woman was ambitious right out the gate, and she wasn’t wrong. But that was definitely a conversation for another time.

“Nervous, Hawke?”  

She sat back on her heels, hands spread warm across his thighs, fingernails raking lightly through his hair. They had slept away the morning, and a ladder of early afternoon sun slanted across the floor of his apartment. That light striped Essa’s skin in gold and dusky shadow, gilded curves and scars, cast her face into planes and angles harsher than truth’s grace before breaking against his painfully bare walls. He hadn’t made the place much of a home yet.

“I would think this would be old hat for you,” Essa added, lips twitching too close, and yet too far away from him.

“Old hat?”

For a moment, Garrett simply glared at her. Even if oral sex  _could_  get old,  _this_  was not something any of the times before had ever prepared him for. She had been staring at him for what seemed an eternity now, the most intense look of concentration on her face he’d ever seen outside of the boxing ring.  To its credit, his cock was absolutely on board with whatever she was thinking, but she had studied him so long and so carefully that Garrett was starting to feel a bit divorced from his favorite appendage.

“I would think the two of you were well familiar by now,” he grumbled in a reasonable mimic of her tone.

Essa smiled. Her lipstick had long since worn away and she had washed the rest of her makeup off before they fell asleep sometime near dawn. She didn’t look younger without it—and thank the Maker for that, Garrett was still a little more hung up on her being nearly as young as his sister—but she did look…guileless…more at ease, more herself. Her eyes were wider somehow, a more implacable grey, and her lips were a surprisingly sweet shade of mauve. He watched her tongue dart across her bottom lip and his cock twitched, his entire body thrumming taut with lust. Essa leaned forward, the warmth of her cheek teasing the inside of his left thigh as she breathed a damp breath to the base of his cock. Garrett swallowed a groan, but not in time. She glanced up at him, smile broadening into a relentless smirk.

“Oh, we’ll get there,” she promised, settling a bit more closely into the open frame of his legs.

Garrett gripped the arms of the chair to keep from reaching for her. Maker, fucking. take. him. She hadn’t even touched him.

“Are you ready for the condom yet?”

It was probably bad form to snap at her with her lips so close to his cock; it was certainly unwise. Essa’s brows drew down and the scar that ran along the crooked ridge of her once-broken nose paled beneath her freckles.

“Unless you have recent medical documentation telling me we don’t need one,” she returned a touch sharply.

His blush was so sudden and unexpected that it shocked him. Garrett thanked the Maker, Merrill’s Creators, and anyone else listening for the partial cover of his beard, scrubbed one hand over his eyes hastily, as if he was praying for patience instead.

“Hawke…” Too late, he realized, cheeks betraying him. He kept his hand firmly over his eyes as she continued, “ _Do_ you have medical documentation…?”

She sounded more curious than suspicious, but she was making him squirmy and maybe later he’d see that she was just paying him back for doing the same to her the night before, but right now he felt more than a little trapped.

“Yes, alright!”

He wasn’t quite shouting, he assured himself, but he still wasn’t looking at her. Andraste, preserve him, he didn’t think there was any salvaging his reputation now. This was stupid. It wasn’t as if it was a conversation he had never had before. It wasn’t as if it was a conversation he hadn’t fully intended to have with her…before today. Definitely before this exact moment.

“Of course, I do,” Garrett said more evenly.

“That’s very…” He could feel the heat from her body; she was always hot—magefire and steel and selective yielding, that’s what Essa was made of—but he thought maybe she was hotter now. Garrett cracked two fingers apart enough to try to catch a glimpse of what he could only hope was a full body blush. “Thoughtful,” she finally finished.

Essa was indeed blushing. Her skin was a beguiling combination of sun-bronze and rose, and she had settled back a little bit more on her heels, giving him space he didn’t need.

“I should have thought of that.”

Her head was tipped to one side, brown hair falling in long lax waves to brush his knee. Garrett curled his fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for her. She sighed.

“Well,” she considered. “You and Ricky both know the results of my last physical.” She’d had a full workup before her last fight. Essa shrugged, not the least embarrassed.  But then, why would she be?  “Nothing’s changed since then and my last ob checkup was normal back in Cloudreach.”

“I went for a physical two weeks ago,” Garrett admitted. “Bethany threatened to kill me if we ended up fooling around first and—“

It was his turn to shrug. Bethany’s concern had been unnecessary. He had already made the appointment, just farther out than had he needed, vastly overestimating his willpower where Essa was concerned. Garrett uncovered his eyes, ran his hand through his hair as if he hadn’t just been hiding behind his fingers.

“We should have talked about this last night too,” Essa added wryly, fingers tapping out an agitated and distracting rhythm on his leg. “Totally ruined the mood, huh?”

He was still naked, and she was still crouched in front him, close enough to tease, but she wasn’t looking at his cock this time. She was looking at him, eyes too blighted soft, a smile he had never seen curving her lips. There was a challenge beneath her humor, laughter enough for both of them. Essa held his gaze steadily, brows lifting in an invitation to share in both.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.” Garrett dropped his hand from his face, leaned forward to brush his knuckles down the curve of her cheek. He smiled at her, an offering, not a demand. Not this time. Something told him they were both vulnerable in this single quiet moment, even if they’d never admit it. He knew he couldn’t offer her gentleness. He didn’t have it to give and she’d likely throw it back in his face anyway, but he wasn’t asking for anything she didn’t want to share. “Would you?”

He lifted one brow, not quite a flirtation, but definitely teasing and she stared up at him, eyes gone to smoke and musings he couldn’t quite follow. He had a moment to wonder, another to chide himself for a fool and then Essa was pressing closer, body arching up into his lap, breasts a warm, silken encompassing. She caught the arm of his chair with one hand for balance, then the other reached for his neck, dragged him down the last few inches that separated them.

“No,” she murmured, bumping their lips together in a hard, swift kiss. She tasted like lemon water and honey, something she had sworn passed for breakfast earlier. “I don’t suppose I would.”

~*~

They absolutely hadn’t ruined the mood, though there was a part of Essa—a tiny, quickly ignored part—that wondered if she’d chosen poorly in looking for a fling with him. She hadn’t expected such consideration, such genuine warmth, and really she should have; it spoke to more than her inexperience that she hadn’t.

“So…” Essa let go of his neck, pushed him back into the chair with one hand splayed wide against his breastbone. Garrett’s heart was pounding as hard and fast as hers, and wasn’t that something? He was still flushed, ruddy skin a brighter red than she would have ever thought he could be.  “Two weeks, huh?”

“Yes.”

He met her gaze without flinching, utterly unabashed, and why shouldn’t he be? Essa stared up the hard planes and angles of his torso. He had as many scars as she did, though a fine dusting of black hair hid the smallest, and only seemed to emphasize the larger puckers of pink and pale.  She counted a half dozen sharp edged memories, two round gunshot scars, nothing ever too close to anything vital, but if he lived long enough in Kirkwall, she imagined those would come.

“You were that certain you’d get under my skirt?” She was genuinely curious, couldn’t exactly blame him since he damn well had.

Essa was determined to rally, and if she wasn’t properly motivated with his cock a cool slide between her breasts then there really wasn’t any hope for her. She had never seen anyone quite so at home in their own skin, and at some point over the course of the night, she’d forgiven him for being so damn pretty. It helped that he never tried to use his considerable charm on her. Most of the time he was so abrasive she knew he had to be doing that on purpose.

“I wasn’t  _that certain_  I wanted under your skirt,” Garrett chuckled, leaving his glass on the arm of the chair to run a hand through his hair.

His dark hair was a tousled mess, russet with just a sheen of a chestnut when the sun caught him just right. It was wilder than usual, and Essa was trying very hard not to be absurdly proud at having mussed him. She was beginning to suspect that Garrett was a carefully orchestrated kind of chaos, and she liked rattling him.  There was something rather nice in knowing he wasn’t as impulsive as he seemed.

Essa reached up, snagged his glass of bourbon and took a sip of rough courage. Her breasts moved subtlety around his cock, and she grinned against the heavy glass when his breath left him in a rush. Point for them both, she thought; she hadn’t expected to like being where she was quite so much.

“Really?”

She shifted again as she set his glass back down, teasing him as much on purpose as not, nerves back now that reality had set in. Oh, she still wanted him; she had woken too many nights lately from dreams that bore a striking resemblance to these exact moments, but here Garrett was patient. She wondered just how patient. Essa was trying not to think about how not entirely unexpected that character trait was. She liked to needle him, and Mabari knew he liked poking at her until she roared, but sex was different.

She wasn’t certain if she wanted sex to be different.

“Fine.” His grin was wide and honest. “Maybe I just didn’t want  _to want_  under your skirt.”

“That’s fair.”

Essa framed his hips with her hands. He was narrower here, a sharp taper from broad, heavily muscled shoulders, chest and abs defined from a life of fighting both in and out of the ring. Her hands were large enough to span the distance between his hip bones easily. She swept her thumbs in a slow arc, leaving a trail of goosebumps before she sat back, dragging her breasts slowly away, brushing the base of his cock with her thumbnails. Garrett made a short sound of approval deep in his throat, eyes falling closed on a sigh.

“In two weeks, there’s been no one?”

She needed to know before she put her mouth on him, because ill-advised or not, she had to taste him as he’d tasted her, without anything between them.

“No one.”  They were being too damned honest tonight, and maybe that was good, but tomorrow, Essa promised herself, tomorrow they had to go back to dissembling. Nothing honest ever lasted in Kirkwall. “Just some very hot dreams.”

Garrett opened his eyes, leaned forward just enough to touch the pad of one thumb to her bottom lip. He was watching her closely, maybe too closely.  She nipped at his thumb before he could pull away, ran her tongue lightly around the tip and watched his fingers curl into his palm.  He’d gotten her off in the shower with his hands and her climax still lingered on his skin.

“And before that?” Essa asked voice low and breathy.

She’d have been ashamed if not for the way his pupils widened, gaze anchoring on hers.  

“Before that—” The words broke as she wrapped her lips around his thumb, sucking once, fast and hard. “Dammit, woman.”

Essa grinned, blinked at him with feigned innocence until he laughed.

“Before that…” Garrett cleared his throat. “…was a long dry spell you keep accusing me of never suffering through.”

She had insulted him with that, though damned if she’d meant to, and damned if she knew why. She envied all the casual sex she had thought he was having.

“Do you need an apology?”

Essa envied casual sex in general. She had a high sex drive, but she rarely seemed to be able to muster up much attraction for anyone unless she was getting her heart broken. Garrett was proving a welcome exception. She had never wanted anyone the way she wanted him and it was so blessedly uncomplicated. Temper and heat and good old-fashioned lust.

“I suppose that depends on just how contrite you are.” His eyes were a dark sparkle, mischief creasing the corners, an offer of humor to soothe nerves she hadn’t yet admitted to.

Essa snorted. “Do not mistake my current position for penitence.”

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Garrett said, laughter tangling with something rougher, something darker. “I’m up for it.”

“Clearly.” Essa snorted. “You fucking ass.”

“We can work up to that too.”

She swatted his calf. “You know, I’m torn between hoping I’m the best blowjob you’ve ever had, and hoping you have to suffer through my mediocrity.”

It was stupid to be this nervous. She felt she’d gotten pretty familiar with him last night and this morning, but having her hands on him wasn’t quite the same as having her mouth on him. She wasn’t necessarily intimidated. He wasn’t freakishly endowed. She didn’t have a ton of personal experience for comparison, but she’d seen plenty of bawdy artwork and photographs of dudes who frankly, she felt a little sorry for—circulation to the rest of the body was necessary to sex, thank you damn much! She had long fingers—big man hands, or so she’d been told—so she could basically wrap those around him without trouble, but…Essa licked her lips…her mouth wasn’t quite so generous.

“Trevelyan…”

And she was making him nervous, which she had to admit was a nice bonus.

“You’re pretty, Hawke.”  He blushed. Twice in the short while she had been kneeling in front of him. Essa grinned, newly emboldened. “And very well groomed.”

She ran her fingers over short-clipped dark hair then farther down, watched his cock twitch as if begging for the attention she was paying other body parts. “I hadn’t ever really thought there was much point in shaving there myself, but I might…”

Garrett groaned. She sort of hoped it was the mental image she had been conjuring because now that the idea was in her head, she wasn’t going to be able to let it go.

“You seem to have a fine hand with a razor.” She trailed her fingertips lower, palmed him lightly, watched delicate flesh draw up. She had never been so close to a man’s cock before. She had seen pictures, nudes both sexualized and not, but her experiences were definitely minimal. “I might get you to help.”

She heard his head thunk back on the chair cushion. “You know…I hope you’re bad at this too.”

“Cutting your nose off to spite your face?” Essa smirked. She ran the flat of one fingernail around his scrotum, watched in fascination as his skin seemed to crawl and tighten. “Besides, I never said I was going to be bad at it.” She leaned forward, placed a soft kiss just beside the base of his cock. He twitched against her cheek, satiny skin almost as hot as she was. “Mediocre at worst.”

“I should have known you were a sadist.”

She rubbed lightly with her cheek, opened her mouth wide beside the nearly chaste kiss she had just given him. His breath caught and she took a moment to tease him, reveling in the scents of clean musk and arousal, the lingering of his soap, something blue-scented and a little salty.  Anticipation was already stinging through her veins and she wondered what it was like for him, the waiting. He had certainly seemed to enjoy taunting her the night before.

“I think we’re both a little mean, Hawke.”

She put her mouth on him properly, stole whatever reply he might have made with a closed mouthed kiss to the head of his cock.

“Yes, we are.”

Essa grinned, hummed something smug and wordless as she braced her hands on his thighs, changing the angle so that she could get her mouth more fully over him, pressing forward and parting her lips slowly, a parody of force he wouldn’t use. She had expected him to taste a bit different here, but his skin was the same if warmer, salt sweet and clean, still cooler than she was. She knew that would change, but that was something she wasn’t going to experience today.

“Fuck.”

She answered by taking more of him in her mouth, a too sudden slide as she made a small miscalculation. Suddenly Garrett’s hands were in her hair, fingers tangling and trembling.

Essa released him immediately, sat back so fast that he pulled her hair.

“I’m sorry.”

They spoke together, and Essa couldn’t quite meet his gaze, her whole body flushing hot and no doubt bright. She have tried to hide behind her hair if his hands weren’t in it. Maybe she should have tried this in the dark the first time?

“What are you sorry for?” she demanded crossly.

He was trying to unwind her hair from his fingers. “I could ask you the same thing?”

If nothing else, his body didn’t seem to be suffering, but Essa knew that wasn’t always the best indicator.

“For grabbing your head.”  She dared to glance up then, saw he wasn’t quite looking at her either. “I shouldn’t…I mean…you might not…”

Fuck. Garrett Hawke was tongue tied. Essa gaped at him.

“I…” By the Mabari, was this a conversation they were having? And  _now_? “I like your hands in my hair,” she muttered.  “You pull too hard, and I’ll bite you.”

Garrett’s guffaw startled her, echoing off the bare walls of his apartment. Essa smacked him on the leg, harder than last time, but when she finally met his eyes she was laughing too.

“I’m serious.”

“Maker’s breath, I know you are.” He tugged on her hair, pulled her up into a long, smirking kiss. “I think that’s the best part,” he added, a whisper against her lips.

“Masochist,” Essa accused, kissing him back with more teeth than anything. “I’m not through, you know.”

His eyes were nearly closed with mirth, cheeks puffed high and bright.  “I certainly hope not.”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “And I think I’ve gotten a better idea of what I’m doing, dammit.” She frowned. “I thought my mouth was smaller than it is.”

“I feel that insults me somehow,” he glared at her. “But I’m not sure how yet.”

Essa snickered. “I swear…” She wasn’t entirely certain what kind of bodily harm she was going to threaten him with, especially when she wasn’t finished enjoying his body, not by a long shot. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His lips twitched. Other body parts did too.

“I mean it.”

His grin broadened, but Garrett nodded as seriously as she supposed she had any right to demand.

“You tell me if I do something you don’t like.” Essa tugged on her hair drawing enough slack that his gentle hold wouldn’t impede her movements. “But aside from that, not a word.”

“Got it.” He was trying not to laugh, but then she was too. Not that she’d thank him for that.

She wrapped one hand around his cock, squeezed tight just to watch him writhe a bit before she set her mouth over him.

“You’re a fast learner, Trevelyan.”  He grunted when she squeezed him again, slowly taking him in, using her hand as a guide so that she didn’t repeat her earlier clumsiness. “I’ve... every….

Essa sucked on him hard, ran the flat of her tongue over pulsing veins, until he was stumbling over his words again.

“....confidence…” His hands tightened in her hair and Essa nodded faintly in approval, noticed the catch in his breath at that particular terse slide. “...in your abilities.”

She pulled back just enough to speak, nibbling kisses even as she snarled at him. “You talk too much, Hawke. You might be ruining this a little bit for me.”

Garrett lifted his head from the back of the chair, stared down the long line of his torso to meet her glower. Essa met his stare, determined to ignore the way her heart stuttered when he whispered, “Liar.”


	6. Way Down We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part of The First Taste smut arc. For those who've read these in the order written rather than the chronological order, this make a bit of sense out of how Essa and Garrett went from here to where they ended up. Angst city. aka Kirkwall.
> 
> NEW. Previously unpublished. including tumblr. :)

“You don’t belong here, Essa.”

Kirkwall was the kind of city that destroyed hearts like hers without even having the courtesy to notice her. A city, grey and bleak and crumbling, all concrete and steam, blood and refuse, streets filled with weary, lifeless people fighting and clawing for any bit of mercy they could find while granting none. Essa Trevelyan was too damn good and too damn honest, despite what she might think. She had as much business being in this cursed place as Garrett’s sister.

“I know it.” She reached across the bed to take his cigar from his lips and Garrett brushed a kiss to the scar on her thumb. He liked her. Damn shame, that. “You don’t belong here either.”

He stared up at the chipping paint on tin ceiling tiles while she blew sweet-scented smoke toward the ceiling fan. They had passed a mostly quiet day in his studio apartment above  _ the Hanged Man _ . It was too damned hot to be out, and the city was stifled, voices low and foot traffic a fraction of its usual. They had kept the windows closed and the fans on high. Essa had spelled the blades of his standing fan with cold and they had spent the worst of the afternoon either lying in its arc or cooling off in the shower. He had never seen her use her magic so casually or comfortably.

That was probably a bad thing too.

“We can’t do this again,” Essa sighed.

She passed him back the cigar, rolling over to brush a kiss to his sweaty shoulder. Tenderness? What place had they for tenderness? And what madness to court it here, even for an instant.

“I know.”

Garrett caught her fingers in his, brought them to his lips, rough scrape of beard followed by lazy kisses. He wasn’t awake yet, not fully; he needed to be.

“At least not for another half hour or so.” His grin was split wide by a yawn. “Maybe not until tomorrow. Fuck, Trevelyan. We had a good day, didn’t we?”

Her laughter was soft, a little weary, but when he dared to look at her face her smile was bright.

“Yes, we did.”  She stretched beside him, one foot rubbing lightly against his calf. “I owe you, you know.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he chuckled. “I seem to recall getting as good as I gave.”  

The sheets were tangled around his legs and the whole room smelled like sex.  Garrett kicked them off, leaned over the side of the mattress to stub his cigar out gently in a cheap glass ashtray. A damn good day, he thought again. Best in too long. They’d hidden from the heat--hidden from the whole fucking world come to that. The city was muted against closed windows and blinds, drowned out by the low noise of the fans, coarse breaths, and echoing shouts. Essa was a bit of a  screamer--shocked them both--and he was fairly certain he was going to be sore, which was saying something. Garrett might not be in peak training condition, but since he and Essa had started going rounds in the ring, he had been climbing back that way. 

“Impossible.” Essa drew him from his thoughts with a snicker. “Biology puts me ahead by…”

He sat up to find her counting on her fingers, brow furrowed. When she had run through all ten and started again Garrett couldn’t stop his chest from puffing out.

“I’m ahead by a lot.”

She grinned down at him, but her gaze was already growing distant. It would be hard as flint when he saw her next, impeccable suit covering a body he knew far too well now, and yet not nearly well enough. Ridiculous that he still wanted her.

“I gotta be honest with you,” Garrett said, reached for a glass of water beside the bed, “if you try to pay me back, you may kill me.” He downed half the glass before passing it to her. “Can’t say that’s not top on my list of ways to go, but…”

He let the quip hang, because for once he wasn’t flirting. They couldn’t do this again; they’d both knew it.  Kirkwall was waiting for them, just outside his door. Templars and mages, death and darkness, all tangled up in too many past sins, his included.

“But that’s not likely to be what gets people like us,” Essa finished the thought for him, grey eyes somber. “I know.”

There had been laughter the night before, most of the day too. They’d eaten sandwiches on the floor in front of the refrigerator, door open to cool heated flesh. She had been wearing one of his undershirts, white ribbed cotton above red lace panties, a study of contrasts that he thought suited her perfectly.

“I can’t be this--” Garrett between them on a sudden confession. “--not out there.” 

He jerked his chin toward the window. Part of him expected snark, maybe a lack of understanding, but Essa nodded.

“I can’t either.”

He tugged on a lock of her hair and she let him pull  her back down into his arms. She fit too well there, all soft curves and hard muscle. He traced the definition in her shoulders with appreciative hands.

“It’s not just the heat,” she continued. “Summer’s hard on my magic, but worse is the rage, and I can’t do what needs doing without feeding it, without being the worst version of myself every waking moment of every day.”

Garrett knew more than a little about that. He dragged his fingers up through her tangled hair and said nothing. Essa made a soft sound and she settled more closely against him, her exhale sounding too much like contentment neither of them could ever hope to find.

“This was nice,” she admitted, pressing a kiss over his heart. “More than nice. But I can’t afford…” She shook her head, chin bumping his chest. “This has to have been a one time thing, do you understand? I can’t go back out there carrying this much…” She struggled to find a word. “…kindness.”

“Kindness, huh?” Garrett couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him kind, but she wasn’t wrong. There had been laughter and sex, but there had been too much mercy too. They’d spent as much time talking as not. She made him wonder too damn much. “No, I don’t suppose either of us can afford that.”

She felt too good, lying beside him, body cool for the first time since he’d met her.

“So we’ll leave it here,” he decided. “A fling, a bit of insanity caused by the summer and the music and whatever else.”

He was well enough accustomed to that. Essa huffed something that didn’t quite sound like a laugh.

“It would help if you’d go back to being an insufferable ass.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Garrett teased. “I was only being nice to you to get laid.”

Her laughter was the real deal now, but so was her squeal of indignation. Essa sat up, smacking him smartly on the chest.

“You were not!”

“No.” He chose to answer the doubt in her eyes, rather than her feigned outrage. Maker’s breath, they had to stop before they wrecked everything.  “That’s it, Trevelyan. That’s the last excessive truth between us.”

“Agreed.” She bent over him, hair falling around them in a long dark curtain, lips hovering over his. “I’m going to put on my armor now,” she murmured, and damn if those suits of hers weren’t just that, Garrett realized. “Then it’s back to usual. I won’t have any kindness for either of us once I go back out there.”

She nodded with her chin toward the door. Essa  was at war with Kirkwall, maybe even more than he was, but Garrett knew an invitation when he heard it, even one wrapped so tight in warning.

“I understand.” He caught her hair in his hands, dragged her down into a bitter kiss before he let her go. “But whatever you do have…” She raised her brows, and Garrett made a decision that he knew would haunt them both. “I’ll take it. Do my best to give you back bruise for bruise, scar for scar.”

She needed to know that too. He didn’t have much gentleness left in him these days. Essa jerked her hair from his hands, and he held on, just long enough for the sting he knew she was after.

“Alright, Hawke.” Her smile was cool, more than a little mean. “We’ll see what we can take.”

 


	7. Going For The Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> random smutty snapshot into the relationship these jerks were not in. A lot of these short pieces were prompts over on tumblr.

“You keep doing  _that_ ,” Garrett muttered against her. “And I’m not going to be able to keep doing  _this_.”

As  _this_ was perhaps one of the most inspiring things the man had ever done with his mouth, Essa was certain that she did not want him to stop. Still, she had to have a break. She didn’t know if it was possible to die from too much sexual pleasure, but she was beginning to think she was in danger of it.

“Do you want me to drop you?”

Essa chuckled, took advantage of the brief reprieve to finally work the buttons of his trousers loose. “You’re the one who decided he wanted to keep his pants on,” she reminded him. “And then you hung me upside down and gave me nothing to do with my hands.”

His palm landed in a stinging smack across her ass. “You’re supposed to be too distracted to be worrying about your hands or my trousers.”

“If I stay that distracted for too long,” Essa gasped as his mouth fell to work on her again. “I will pass out. I might even die.”

He laughed against her and Essa’s hands dropped uselessly toward the floor. She hung in his grip, thighs over his shoulders, face bumping against his zipper.

“How many is that?” he whispered, pausing to swipe his beard against the inside of her leg.

“Fuck…” she pulled in a ragged breath and tried to remember. “I lost count again.”

She had been losing count, nothing existed beyond the number three in her euphoria swamped body.

Garrett licked her, a long, languid stroke that sent her tumbling again.

“You lose count at three again?” he asked, voice muffled between her legs.

Essa nodded, rubbed her cheek against him just to feel the groan he bit back rumble through his chest and into hers.

“How many times have I done that?” she asked, tugging at his zipper with fingers gone clumsy and eyes fogged with pleasure’s haze.

“Three,” he said smugly, shifting his hold on her ass. One thumb swept down, stroked her in a rough counterpoint to his tongue and another orgasm tore through her without warning.

“By the Mabari…” Essa sagged against him. “Are we going for another record?”

Not that she minded. If this was how she died, she didn’t think she could complain.

“We’re fighters.” He lapped at her then bit down gently on her clit. Essa groaned in encouragement. “We’re always going for a record.”

### Actions


	8. Her Favorite Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut prompt was: What's their style. This pretty much sums it up at all points on their timeline. lol

“Dammit, woman,” Garrett’s voice was muffled against her spine. He placed a sharp kiss on her shoulder blade just to see his teeth marks bloom bright and red beside the puckered scar of a knife she had taken in darktown. “Be still.”

“You outweigh me by nearly a hundred pounds, you ogre,” Essa grunted back. She was still damp from her shower and he wasn’t entirely certain she had finished rinsing the soap from her skin. “Why don’t you fucking make me?”

She pushed her hips back against him, her ass a beautiful distraction all by itself, but then she reached back with one hand, raked her nails down his stomach. He dropped the box of condoms, heard it bounce who knew where as it hit the floor of the locker room.

“Nice one, Hawke.” Essa laughed, the sound a bright echo off the white tiles of the open shower. “Where are your famous hands now?”

He should have gone after the box, but she had insulted him. “Well if you weren’t in such a blighted hurry—“

“I was not,” she protested, sliding against him in enticement, maybe retribution. “But if you’re going to stand there whining…”

She pushed off of the wall, knocking him back a step. “I can always go home and take care of this myself.”

She wasn’t bluffing. She had recounted one such evening to him once–and in shocking detail–just to punish him.

“I should let you.” Garrett caught her by the waist, spun her back to face him and lifted her off her feet. There was smug satisfaction in her grey eyes. “I hate you, you know that?”

It wasn’t true, but still he kissed her roughly, teeth clashing, fingers digging into her thighs as he dragged her legs up high around his waist, holding her too far above where he wanted her. He licked into her mouth, hard enough that she gasped around his tongue.

“It’s a good hate.” She mumbled the approval as she leaned forward, lips and teeth closing over the taut muscle that ran from his neck to his shoulder. “The box landed beside my towel.”

She pressed close to him, nipples catching in his chest hair. She made an appreciative sound low in her throat and he pressed his mouth to the rumble of it.

“Get the blighted condom, Hawke.” Maker, but he loved a bossy woman.

“No,” he said flatly.

“What?” She stared at him in surprise and he nearly laughed.

“Not until you apologize to my hands.”

He didn’t wait for her retort. He had heard most of them by now anyway. He pushed her back against the long open wall of the shower, reached between their bodies and found her hot and slick. He stroked her once with his thumb, too gently, too careful.

“Never.” The declaration emerged on a moan.

Garrett ignored her. “Not until you’re begging,” he added. He stroked her again with greater dexterity, and sparks burst, bright and blue across the flint of her gaze.

“Never,” Essa repeated.

Her head fell back against the wall and when she said it again, Garrett couldn’t help but smile.

It was her favorite lie.


	9. It's No Big Deal, Until It's a Big Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for #sexlaughter honesty week 2017. Friendship fic, talking about sex, sexuality, asexuality. Striving for self acceptance. NSFW (ish) but only for talk of sex.
> 
> Cari Trevelyan is one of my most loved characters. If they were words in her universe, she would identify as asexual, heteromantic, sex ambivalent (to varying degrees depending on the work). In my canon work she ends up with Krem, but I haven’t written as much about her in the noir au. Her sister would identify as demisexual, panromantic, with a high sex drive. So here you go. Cari, Essa, Bethany Hawke.
> 
> This takes place about two years before the events of the More Than Smoke storyline, when Essa and Garrett were definitely not in a relationship and before and after Fin and Bethany met and started pining. If you care at all about the main plot (you don’t have to!), Cari and Essa were working toward making contacts and infiltrating the red lyrium trade; Bethany was working as a nurse and going to medical school. Essa would also have been working with Garrett during this time. She and Bethany were about 22/20 respectively, Cari almost 28, which yep, puts her and Garrett at about the same age.

When it came to sex, Cari Trevelyan had always been different, and she had always known that simple truth, even if the exacts eluded her. When she and her friends hit puberty and everyone’s hormones surged, hers…well, they mostly didn’t. The idea of sex was only a little enticing, and not nearly so much as the actual romance of finding her one true love. Loyalty, friendship, warmth, affection…these were always so much more important to her than the heaving, grasping,  _whatever_ everyone else seemed to be foolishly searching for.

Still, Cari knew she wasn’t normal—whatever that meant—and she knew that she was unlikely to find the handsome hero she dreamed of, the one who would love and accept her for who she was. Who wanted a love who didn’t swoon at his touch? What kind of man, or woman for that matter, would want someone who was mostly disinterested in even the most basic expressions of the physical act of love?

“Well, first of all,” her sister said, sprawling in the floor of Cari’s bedroom. “You have to stop looking at sex as an expression of love.”

Essa was Cari’s junior by five years, but in so many ways she was far older and wiser than Cari. They had only been raised somewhat together, Cari by their parents in the big house of the Trevelyan estate, Essa in the stable by the stable manager and a nanny mabari. Cari hadn’t realized how awful that was until she was nearly grown and by then she couldn’t do much but try to build a relationship with her younger sister. They had grown closer since Essa moved to Kirkwall, but Cari sometimes thought Essa was too forgiving.

“Don’t get me wrong—“ Essa waved one hand to get Cari’s attention. “—it certainly can be, but so can…” She floundered for a moment, and Cari watched her thoughts chase one another across her face. As far as Cari knew, Essa had been in exactly two relationships, the longest and best being the one Essa was in now and that she refused count. “So can snuggling or bathing together, or anything intimate.”

Cari raised one brow. “Uh-huh. You only had sex with—“

“That was a long time ago,” Essa huffed. “I was young and stupid.”

“And you loved him.”

“I  _thought_  I loved him,” Essa retorted; Cari let her have the redaction. “And I’ll give you that I cared about him and trusted him and I guess that’s what I require for me and my body to find someone sexually attractive.” She shrugged, added, “We aren’t talking about Hawke though.”

Cari laughed. “No, we aren’t.”

Essa had been in Kirkwall for a year now and for the last four months, she and Garrett Hawke had been—in her own words—fucking around.

“I don’t think it’s like that for me?” Cari continued. “Trust and, well, whatever passes for affection for you—“ Essa grinned. “—doesn’t seem to be enough.”

“I wasn’t saying it was.” Essa reached for her tea, strong fingers light on a delicate porcelain cup. She was always a study of contrasts, by turns coarse and gentle, brutally straightforward, blunt to a fault, but careful, so careful, with the hearts she cherished.  “Only…“

Cari waited as she gathered her thoughts, parsing out each phrase with slow deliberateness. Essa still worried that she would somehow offend. They were getting better now that they were away from their family, but they were both still wary.

“Sex doesn’t equal love, Care,” Essa said finally, certainty echoing from her cup. “Not even for me.”

No, of course it didn’t. Cari knew that. She was almost twenty-eight years old, for Maker’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d never had sex, and she certainly hadn’t been in love for most of those times.

“But shouldn’t love equal sex?” Cari asked. Shouldn’t she want to make love—desperately, passionately—to the person she was in love with?

“Maybe?” Essa frowned. “No.”

No?

“No,” she said again, as if she’d heard Cari’s thoughts. She set her teacup back on the tray between them, stretched her legs out on the rug so that her bare toes curled against Cari’s socked feet. “Look, I don’t know much about romantic love, but I do know love.”

A miracle there, but Cari didn’t interrupt her.

“I’ve seen it in every awful expression, and been lucky enough to find the good ones.” Essa squeezed Cari’s toes with hers. “Real love has room for us. For our oddities and inconsistencies. Love might make us better than we are, but it doesn’t demand something we aren’t.” She folded her arms crossly. “You’ll see. There’s happily ever after out there for you.”

Cari laughed ruefully. “How can you think that?”

“Because you have too much heart to be like me,” Essa said.

~*~

Self-acceptance came slowly to Cari. She didn’t have as much faith as her sister did, but then, she had grown up in a world with clear delineations between right and wrong, proper and improper. Essa had been raised in a barn. There wasn’t anything ordinary about her life—both the good and the bad—but for Cari average and ordinary were standards to be carefully cultivated, then wrapped up in wealth and status so that it didn’t look anything close to common. Money didn’t buy you a ticket free from social norms. Not in the Trevelyan family. Only neglect would get you any freedom.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Essa said, four months after their first conversation about Cari’s sexuality.

“A truly shocking development,” Bethany interrupted.

_The Tourney_  was closed for the night and the three of them were the only people left in the bar. Cari slid a glass of club soda and cherry juice across the bar to her sister, added a twist of lime before Essa could ask for it.

“Thank you.”

She was sporting a bruised cheek and busted lip, scab thick but still new. Half the time Cari couldn’t tell what was caused from sex and what was the result sparring between Essa and Hawke.

“Ring or…” She had been going to say “bedroom,” but that was rarely their preferred location given that Garrett and Bethany were currently sharing a too-small apartment. Cari frowned, pointed at Essa’s face and started over. “Boxing or sex?”

There was a pool going on how long before Essa’s best friend took one of his blacksmith’s hammers to Hawke’s hard head. Cari had her money on six months. Fin Larkson was nothing if not patient and he and Essa talked—more than anyone Cari knew—so he’d likely give her the benefit of the doubt longer than most of them.

Essa pointed to her cheek. “Boxing.” She took a sip of her drink, wincing around the straw. “Sex.” Her grin was quick and honest. “And my fault. I sorta fell.”

Cari shook her head. “You ‘sorta fell’?”

Essa and Garrett’s antics were starting to become the stuff of legend among their friends. Cari had been embarrassed at first at how open everyone in their social circle was about sex. They didn’t necessarily share graphic details, but sex was mostly just another part of life. Between Essa, Garrett, Isabela, Bethany’s medical knowledge, and Varric’s stories, Cari had learned more about the different ways people related to sex than she had ever thought possible. It had been strangely good for her to hear that sex wasn’t the end all be all. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it was romantic, and sometimes it was incredibly, unabashedly stupid.

Essa and Garrett seemed rather devoted to the first and last of those categories.

“On my head,” Essa added, grin stretching her lip until she groaned. “Because positions.”

“You two are idiots, you know that?”

Bethany glared down into her drink, something strong and fruity and guaranteed to fog the memories of her last shift. It had been a long day at the clinic, a long day for all three of them. They needed bad food and good company and friendship. Cari couldn’t help being pleased and a little proud that they’d both come here.

“You’re biased, Doc.” Essa wrinkled her nose above the rim of her glass. “You wouldn’t be nearly so bent out of shape if we were skiing or sailing or whatever passes for extreme sports around this city.”

“Maybe not at first,” Bethany agreed. “But—“ she waved one hand at Essa’s face and sighed loudly.. “I could heal that you know.  _You_  could heal that much.”

Essa’s magic was largely destructive, but Bethany had been teaching her. Still, the fact that they spoke so casually was a wonder. Magic was more taboo for Essa than sex would ever be.

“Nope.” She touched her fingers to her cheek, pressed just enough change the color of the bruise. “We’d never learn our lessons that way.”

“You aren’t learning now.” Bethany glared at Essa and Cari laughed at both of them.

“I don’t want to know.” She moved down the bar. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about Essa, unless it’s increasingly dangerous sex positions.”

Essa stuck her tongue out at her. “It’s still about sex,” she warned, voice dropping lower. “About what your worries.”

Cari grabbed a bottle of gin and an old-fashioned glass, began mixing a complicated aperitif that Essa always teased her about. 

“I thought there wasn’t anything to worry about,” she hedged, hoping she sounded as playful as the rest of them always did.

“There isn’t,” Essa said quickly. “No matter what.”

Her grey eyes were wide and earnest and Cari had no choice but to believe her. There were a lot of doubts in her life. Essa’s love wasn’t one of them.

“You could just have a low sex drive,” Bethany observed, straw between her teeth. She had her elbows on the bar, weight forward. Until Essa started talking about sex, Cari had been wondering if Bethany was falling asleep.

“I think it’s maybe pretty…medium?” Cari ventured.

Cari knew her friends well enough to understand that they weren’t trying to tell her her own mind, but rather to help her figure out parts of herself she was troubled by. Their acceptance of what she viewed as one of her flaws had gone a long way toward helping her to see that maybe she was just different.

“I mean—“ She tried not to duck her head in embarrassment. If Essa and Bethany could be direct, then so could she. “My body gets a little wound up sometimes. A good book, a sexy dream. I masturbate once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. Years of training had her waiting for judgment or censure.

Essa chuckled. “Yeah…high sex drive here.” She raised one hand. “That’s just…a part of my nightly routine.”

“Not quite nightly for me.” Bethany took a loud slurp of her drink. “Though more lately with a certain blacksmith in town.”

“Eww.” Essa groused. “Not fair, Beth.”

“You’re fucking my brother on every relatively clean mostly flat surface in Kirkwall,” Bethany retorted. “You can survive my fantasizing about Fin.”

“Fine,” Essa huffed. She raised her glass and she and Bethany toasted, resealing a pact they’d been making since early Wintermarch.

Cari shook her head. “Really, Es?” She had to ask, though Maker’s breath, even a year ago she would have been horrified at just the idea of asking her sister something so personal. “Nightly? Even with you and Garrett—”

She broke off, blushing furiously.

“Well, no, not  _those_  nights. Those nights I can barely move if we’ve done it right.” She chuckled,  nodded to the shelf behind the bar. “I’m going to need something stronger if we’re going to have this conversation.”

“We don’t have to.” Cari was quick to assure her.

“I know, but it’s good for me.” She waited while Cari poured her a short of middle-shelf whiskey. “Thanks for that.”

Essa raised her glass between her and Bethany, another silent toast. She was tired, and that would have her sentimental quicker than the booze.

“To my best gals.”

Bethany leaned over, dropped a light kiss to Essa’s bruised cheek. Cari blew her sister a kiss, waited as Essa knocked the whiskey back in one long swallow.

“Alright,” she said, setting her glass down and pushing it toward the back of the bar. “I may need another of those before we’re done.” She took a long, slow inhale. “Took me a long time to realize sex was just going to be a need for me. Between my magic and everything else I carry too much tension. The deep release of orgasm is almost medicinal.”

“Endorphins,” Beth interjected wisely, “are wonderful things.”

“Yes, they are.” Essa nodded emphatically before continuing. “Don’t get me wrong, I love sex. Especially for the sake of sex, and it’s a whole lot more fun and generally way more satisfying as an interactive sport than just me rubbing one out every night.” She tapped the bar and Cari refilled her whiskey. Essa’s cheeks were a surprising shade of rose. “If you tell Hawke I said that, I’ll deny it, and never speak to you again.”

Cari smiled. “I wouldn’t.”

“Me either.” Bethany fished a strawberry out of her glass. “His ego is insufferable enough as it is.”

She and Essa clinked glasses.

“I don’t know if I’m explaining this well,” Essa admitted. “I just…sex is sort of a big deal for me, even without adding someone into it, I guess I’m saying it stands to reason you’d be the opposite. Maybe sex just isn’t a big deal for you?”

Cari finally finished mixing her drink as she considered. It was entirely possible. Most of the time, she didn’t feel any great need for that release and when she did it was almost…practical? Just a routine part of bodily maintenance. It certainly didn’t involve another person. She’d had sex before, of course, it was expected in relationships and she tended to enjoy the closeness if not necessarily the actual act, but outside of a relationship, sex was definitely not a drive for her, and inside of a relationship, it was just…another part of the whole. Sometimes it was nice, sometimes it wasn’t, and too often it seemed to have very little to do with her.

“I want it to be a big deal for me?” Cari sighed. “Sometimes it not being a big deal feels like a really big deal.”

“That’s the world talking,” Bethany declared. “Ignore them.”

“Here, here.”

She appreciated their support, probably more than either of them could truly know, but—“I want a partner one day.” She stared down into her drink. “Essa, you’ve said more than once you don’t actually care. That you can be happy on your own.”

“I am happy on my own.”

Because she and Hawke weren’t anything but fooling around. Cari rolled her eyes.

“Fine, you’re happy on your own. You don’t care about babies or growing old with someone. I do?”

“Not a damn thing wrong with that,” Bethany insisted.

“No,” Cari agreed. “But how can I expect a relationship with someone when I may or may not ever want to make love—“ She threw a piece of ice at Essa’s eye roll. “ _Have sex_  with them?”

“You just have to find someone you’re compatible with.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Bethany said, elbowing Essa sharply. “You don’t need to find someone you’re necessarily  _sexually_  compatible with. These idiots are rarer than you are,” she said to Cari, indicating Essa and Garrett with the same exasperated sigh she’d been using for months now. “But you know what isn’t? Healthy relationships. I see them all the time at the hospital, even in Kirkwall. People who communicate, who understand they don’t always have the same needs. People who still want to be together and do their best to figure out what works for them.”

She tipped her glass up, head falling back so she could down the last of it. 

“Sex isn’t the same as intimacy.” She glared at Essa and Essa nodded agreeably enough. “There’s no reason you can’t have that, Cari Trevelyan.” Bethany’s gaze was sharp as she reached one hand across the bar, cool fingers finding Cari’s and hanging on. “You hear me?”

“We mean it, Care.”

Cari reached for Essa with her other hand, found the warmth of a hearth fire waiting for her in her sister’s solid touch.

“I hear you.”


	10. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from the first Satinalia that Essa x Garrett were (not) together. A prompt from tumblr for the holidays. It's crossposted in the Satinalia fic work.

"Are you trying to make me hang myself?” Essa demanded.

She was balancing on a kitchen chair, one foot in the seat, one on the top of the back, a set of white string lights tangling around her body as she tried to drape them around the heavy, gilt-framed mirror that hung above the mantle.

“If that’s what you think I’m trying to do,” Garrett smirked, dark gaze catching hers through the smoke of the mirror. “I either hit you harder last night than we thought, or I’m doing this wrong.”

Essa scowled. “You’re taller than I am.” She valiantly ignored the rough skim of his nails down her spine.  “You could be helping, not hindering.”

Her shirt had risen to brush her ribs as she reached overhead and Garret was much more interested in the way those inches of exposed skin seemed to glow bronze beneath the tiny points of light.  She had no few scars shining silver-white, but there was a new one low on her back. The puckered skin was still red and angry and if he let himself remember how she had come by it, so was Garrett.

“This is your sister’s…” Essa’s annoyance wavered on a groan. “Party.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

He pressed a kiss to the constant warmth of her skin, swept his tongue across a pebbling of goosebumps with a hum of appreciation; his lips had been waiting weeks to taste this latest proof of her valor, to welcome it among its myriad brethren. He knew the rest as if by name. Every blade and bullet, every fury and grace. Every mistake. He and Essa had traded war stories one almost-drunken night sometime after they realized whatever they had between them was persisting.

Not that either of them was going to admit anything so foolish.

“Garrett…”

His name was a sigh, soft and yielding. The chair wobbled and she mumbled wordless curses as he wrapped his arms around her hips, holding her steady and setting his teeth against her flesh.

“We have an hour before the party,” she reminded him, voice rigid even as her body pressed back toward him.

Garrett pulled her down, turned to drop her on the couch in a tangle of twinkling lights. She glared up at him, hair a tumble around her flushed face, lips lifting in a helpless smile.

“Then that gives us thirty minutes.” He raised one brow in askance.

“Fine…” Essa dropped her head back onto the couch, feigned a put-upon expression that had him grinning. “But then you’re hanging these damned lights.”


	11. Hate Me Quietly aka Thedas's Worst Euphemism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted by theMightyZan for Satinalia (so it's also on the Satinalia list as Thedas's New Worst Euphemism). I would like to say that I am not, in anyway, to be blamed for the "basting the Christmas ham" joke. NSFW.
> 
> Essa and Garrett's first Satinalia (not) together. lol

“Hey! Essa!”

Bethany’s call was muted by the time it drifted from the kitchen. Her cheerful voice barely pierced the spritely Satinalia carol Garrett had turned up too loud in a lame attempt to hide his and Essa’s reunion. He had just gotten back from a ten week series of small fight exhibitions across the Marches. It had taken them all of five minutes to get Essa’s skirt up around her waist, her back against her bedroom wall.

She would have been impressed if she weren’t currently far too busy chasing an absolutely brilliant orgasm.

“Don’t. you. dare. stop. Hawke.”

The ragged command was interspersed with staccato breaths; Essa didn’t have enough air to threaten him properly. She could only trust that he knew she was serious, that he could feel the urgent winding of her body. If her guess was right, they had about fifteen minutes before Bethany became truly annoyed with Essa’s absence from the Satinalia preparations.

“Give me some credit, Trevelyan.” Garrett’s one-handed grip on her ass adjusted to keep her from sliding too far down the wall. There wasn’t time for interruptions or distractions. By the Mabari, it had been too damn long.

“I’ll give you,” she flexed her thighs, shifted around him just right. She finished her assurance on a gasp. “Anything you want.”

“Liar.” His hold on her panties tightened and Essa heard the elastic creak in protest. The lace trim dug into her skin as Garrett tugged the scrap of silk farther to the side, thrusts never faltering.

“Essa!” Bethany’s shout was closer now and Essa tried to remember if she had locked her door.

“It’s locked,” Garrett grunted, teeth just below her ear.

“Thank the Maker!” She met the roll of his hips with her own, drew a shudder from both of them.

“So, I’m the Maker now.”

Essa snorted, too weak to retort. She flexed her heels against the small of his back, pulling herself forward at the exact right moment to meet him, and dragging a groan of pleasure from them both.

“Just,” she panted, shoved her hair back from eyes. “Ignore her.”

Garrett’s trousers and briefs had been pushed somewhere down around his knees and unless the apartment had suddenly caught fire, she couldn’t think of anything more important than what they were doing.

“Have I given you a reason to doubt me, woman?” he demanded quietly.

“Not yet.”

She braced against the wall with her arms and flexed her calves, increasing the angle and the blissful friction between them. Garrett lost his balance and the single missed beat left Essa giggling. She caught at his shoulders to keep from falling.

“How close are you?” He dropped a kiss on her smiling mouth.

“Embarrassingly close,” she muttered turning her lips to his jaw. She grazed his earlobe with her teeth, smiled when he stumbled.  

“Essa!”

Bethany’s third shout was closer again, and Garrett startled, went maddeningly, frustratingly still. Essa glared at him and when she opened her mouth to object, he pressed his lips to hers, tongue sliding warm and wet against her bottom lip, scattering her thoughts and disrupting her protests.  His fingers tightened on her hip as she kissed him back, a wild scrape of teeth and clinging lips before she realized she’d fallen for his intention. Essa’s fingers clenched to fists in his hair.

“I will injure you,” she whispered furiously into the hot mingling of their too-short breaths.

He had the audacity to wink at her. “Not just yet you won’t.”

Bastard was right and of course he knew it. Garrett snapped his hips forward hard enough that her head thumped against the wall. Essa’s eyes closed on a moan and she slapped one hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stop the sound from reaching the hall. She heard the watercolor above the bed fall from its nails.

“I hate you.”

The declaration was incoherent behind the tight clasp of her fingers, but Essa knew that he heard her just the same. She had said the words to him plenty, could only hope he believed them. His smile curved sharp and bright, the most dangerous edge ever held against her throat. His lips wandered down her neck, trailing small, seemingly-innocent pecks until he reached her pulse.

“That’s fine,” he teased, laughter rich beneath kisses that had begun to linger. Essa sighed, hands clawing for support against the wall. Her body trembled and there would be paint and plaster beneath her nails by the time they were through. “But you could hate me quietly? That is my sister not three paces from your door.”

He peppered sharp nips over the desperate rush of her pulse and then his hips picked up that same rhythm, driving her up with ruthless insistence. Essa pulled his hair in silent retort, opened her eyes to find him watching her face, his gaze shining dark in the soft glow of the string lights around her window.

“You’re wearing too much,” she accused, restless stare darting from his face to chest.

They had gotten his shirt unbuttoned–she couldn’t exactly recall when–but not off. The white button-down hung open over his undershirt and the soft cotton was a frustrating barrier between them, abrading her oversensitive skin every time she pressed her chest to his. She had already considered ripping it down the center as he’d done hers, but she couldn’t remember if he had a spare here. She yanked his shirttails from the undone waist of his trousers, shoved the fabric from his shoulders. The sleeves caught at his elbows and Essa left them to fight impatiently with his tshirt.

“A little help,” she mumbled gruffly.

“Yes, ma’am.” Garrett let go of her to pull the shirts from his arms. Together they held her against the wall with nothing more than the press of his hips to hers and the strength of Essa’s abdominals.

“I missed you.” His eyes roamed hungrily over the taut extension of her body and her breath betrayed her, catching for one scittering heartbeat at the earnest assertion. Garrett tossed his shirts to the floor behind him with a grin. “And I’ll deny that under oath.”

Essa’s breath returned in a rush and she clung to the taunt. “Of course you will.”

He leaned back toward her, hands trailing up the outside of her arms to tug her torn shirt from her shoulders. His thumbs swept in gentle arcs across her suddenly chilled skin, grazed the outside curves of her breasts.

“I am not,” she managed around the refutation around a whimper. Her hands splayed across his chest, palm holding the deep pounding of his heart.  “Saying it back.”

She feathered touches along his ribs, dragged the backs of her nails over the spots she knew would make him weak. Garrett scowled, almost dropped her again.

“Of course you aren’t.”

Essa smirked. He drove her back against the wall in retaliation. Plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling and for a moment he was so perfectly, completely inside of her that she nearly came.

The cups of her bra were shoved down beneath her breasts. Garrett’s skin was lighter than hers and the contrast of bronze, rose, and tan against the curve of black lace was the most erotic thing Essa had ever seen. He pinched her nipple gently, his touch too careful against desperate flesh. She sighed in frustration, arched toward his hand in silent askance, perilously close to begging. 

“Hawke.”

His name was a lust-filled warning and Garrett finally squeezed hard enough to hurt, the rough touch timed with the frantic joining of their bodies. The sound that escaped her throat was something between a growl and a purr, though she would deny that too.  

“I hate you,” she said again, just to make herself feel better. But that word had lost all meaning between them.

His left hand was still toying with her breast as he slid his right hand down between them, fingers grazing her clit until she clenched around him, pressed small helpless sounds to his shoulder. He caught her panties and jerked them to the side again, knuckles digging into her hipbone. Essa smiled, teeth and tongue collecting salt from his skin. Their impatience was going to leave behind bruises, and she would have been lying if she didn’t admit just how much that turned her on.

“Close?”

“Was there a number we were going for?” She chuckled. Already there had been so many small quakes.

“I want you screaming,” he reminded her.

“Screaming isn’t exactly wise right now,” she puffed against his neck.

Garrett pinched her nipple again and she sagged on the wall, letting him take her weight as she lay warm and boneless to catch her breath. He nudged his head and neck against the tangle of her arms.

“Let go,” he muttered tersely. “I need to reach you.”

She was too obedient, she thought, releasing him immediately, pressing herself back to give him whatever room he needed. She caught a glimpse of a smirk as he bent toward her. He would give her shit for that later, but right now she couldn’t bring herself to care. His mouth fell to her nipple and he licked her once, then again, an indulgent counterpoint to his rougher treatment of the other.

“Dear Maker,” she muttered. “You have to switch, you’re going to kill me.”

But she craved that divergence. Whatever burned between them did so in endless variance, rough tenderness and playful brutality, each contradiction overlaying one after another until sometimes her head swam with them. Her body was no different, begging for touch both too harsh and too gentle, and in the months since she first fucked him silent in the back of  _the Tourney_ , Garrett had tested the bounds of that delicate balance, helped her to find so many edges.

“You can take a little more,” he murmured.

He swirled his tongue over puckered flesh before he taking hold of her in earnest. Essa sank her teeth into her lower lip, sucking the kiss-swollen curve into her mouth to push back the cry that threatened as desire coiled, hot and bright.

Her vision blew white.

“Essa?” Bethany knocked on the door. “I’m wrist deep in the sugar cookies. I need you to come baste the ham.”

Garrett’s mouth left her breast with a pop, and the sound seemed louder than the radio. The song had switched and this one was not nearly as merry. Essa leaned back against the wall in frustration, breath exploding in an almost-sob.

“Yes, Essa,” Garret pressed his face between her breasts, laughter a warm rumble, hand falling back to her hip as he continued his slow thrusts. “Come.” The order was low, whispering cool against the moisture his mouth had left on her skin. “Baste the ham.”

It was perhaps the worst euphemism in all of Thedas, and Essa would be forever proud of herself for not laughing.

“I’m going to fucking kill you for that.” But her orgasm still hovered, just beyond the ridiculousness of it all.

“No, you’re not.” He adjusted the angle of their hips more precisely and Essa was forced to muffle a scream against his shoulder. “I’m going to retreat while you’re in a post-coital haze.”

Bethany knocked again. “Essa, honey? Are you…asleep?”

“I’m awake!” Essa shouted next to Garrett’s ear. He winced and she stuck her tongue out at him, not even caring that he couldn’t see her face. “I just need…five minutes. Can it wait that long?”

“Sure…” There was uncertainty in her voice, but Bethany’s steps grew faint as she finally, finally walked away.

“Five minutes?” Garrett raised his brows at her.

“Yes, five minutes.”  

She tightened her legs around his waist, arching her back off of the wall and propelling him back toward the bed. Bless the man for his ability to multitask; she was still so blighted close. Essa trailed blunt nails up his spine, watched his eyes slide shut on a deep shudder.

“Consider it a challenge, or so help me I’m going to tell your sister you snuck in here to fuck me first instead of telling her that you’re home.”


	12. In Search of Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Satinalia prompt. SFW (surprisingly) and a little bit of angst amid so much fluff.
> 
> Garrett and Essa's first Satinalia (not) together. lol

Kirkwall may have cornered the market on dark and gloomy, but not this time of year.  Snow covered the dirt and the grime, hid the city’s sins beneath a crisp blanket of white. For a week the world was transformed as if by Satina’s magic. Nearly every window was adorned in white lights and golden moons, silver stars glittering beneath the hazy sky as if they could chase away the shadows that haunted them the rest of the year. In the abandoned parks, folks would gather to sing carols, and children decorated trees and bushes with paper moons, stars, and Andraste’s blessed mabari. Every bakery and coffee shop was selling saffron buns, the honeyed yeast rolls shimmering golden with spice. Mulled wines had replaced most of the stronger spirits in the taverns.

Damn shame, that.

“Whiskey?”

Essa leaned in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a garland of greenery, lights, and silver tinsel over her head. She was still wearing her work clothes, a smart navy suit that she always made look dangerous. Or maybe that was just the woman. She was holding an old-fashioned in each hand, smile was as warm as the lights, grey eyes as cold as the winter sky.

“Have I told you you’re my favorite dame, Trevelyan?”

They were spending most of the winter festival at Essa’s apartment and Garrett was glad. The family estate wasn’t quite ready for “a good ol’ traditional” Satinalia and if he were being honest, Garrett wasn’t ready for Satinalia in his family’s home.  Now that their mother was gone, he didn’t know if he ever would be. How his sister could cling so tightly to the holiday was beyond him, but then, until he met Essa, he had never known anyone who loved Satinalia the way Bethany did.

“Only when you want something.” Essa grinned, took a slow sip from her glass. She  watched him over the rim as it lowered.  “Or after you’ve gotten something you wanted.”

It was good for Bethany to have someone else celebrate with. Holidays had been hard for him after his father passed, but his mother and siblings had been possessed of belligerent cheer.  Bethany’s had faltered only once and that had been after they lost Carver. Now it was just the two of them and Garrett tried—Maker, he tried!—to put on a happy face for Bethany. He had decorated both of their apartments and Varric’s with white and gold string lights and what had to be a million moon lanterns, but he knew it was more than trappings and bows.

“Thank you.” Garrett slipped one arm around her waist, drew her close with a hand played across her back as he took a drink from her with the other. She smelled like peppermint and vanilla and wood smoke.  “And I don’t just mean for the whiskey.”

In the center of the arch a kissing ball hung from a pale blue ribbon, and even as she turned her face up to his, he wondered at the wisdom of such easy affection.

“I know.” And the reply could just as easily have been to words unspoken. Her smile faded on the edges, curving to something sad and restless. “Kiss me anyway.”

He bent his lips to hers, lingered over the flavors of whiskey and orange bitters on her tongue, and pretended that he couldn’t taste the hints of heartbreak yet to come.  Her empty hand was on the back of his neck, short nails scraping the sensitive skin beneath the shaggy ends of his hair.

“Has Beth forgiven you yet?” she murmured against his mouth.

“For…” He had a list of transgressions of course.

Essa’s fingers tangled, held fast and she slanted his mouth harder against hers. Her tongue was a warm, brash slide.

“For yesterday.” The words puffed out as he backed her against the door casing. “For…”

His lips trailed to her jaw, and for a moment he let his teeth worry gently over the scar that ran toward her jugular.

“For our ‘disgraceful’,” she sighed, leaned into his touch. “’Debauchery’.”

Garrett chuckled.  “Not…” He nipped her bottom lip and she sighed, leaned more fully against him until he could feel every curve, strong and soft. Maker, preserve him, but this woman was his favorite kind of trouble. “Not quite yet. She only threw one shoe and dozen curses though, so I think she’ll come around.”

Essa snickered. “Then you should get your hand off of my ass. She’s about—“

“Joyous night!” Bethany shouted, throwing open the front door and stumbling inside. She had her arms so loaded with brightly wrapped parcels that they could barely see the pompom on top of her red knitted cap. “You two better be dressed with six inches between you.”

“Six—“ Garrett began, fully intended to further traumatize his sister as he reluctantly let Essa go. Essa slapped her hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling.

“A full arm’s length,” she declared so dryly that Bethany giggled behind her festal barricade . “I can uncover his mouth if you really want me to.”

“Oh, no, please keep him silent.” She shuffled farther into the living room, dropped her boxes to the couch with a tumble and clatter. “We can call it our Satinalia miracle.”

Bethany grinned, cheeks bright with cold and eyes dancing merrily above the colorful riot of her scarf.  She crossed back to the door to take off her boots, shaking snow from her coat as she took it off and hung it up. Garrett took advantage of her distraction to lick Essa’s palm.

“Ew.” Essa wiped her wet hand on his face with a scowl that didn’t quite hide her smile. “Sorry, Beth. It’d take the Maker himself to shut your brother up.”

“Or a better strategy,” Garrett offered helpfully, waggling his brows at her while Bethany’s back was still turned.


	13. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: Each Night Begins a New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most days, Bethany Hawke was barely keeping her head above water. Well, that wasn’t true. Most days her head was fine. She was halfway through her medical degree, had a legitimate job at a modest hospital on the good edge of Lowtown, and so far the Templars were content to leave her in peace. No, It was her fool brother she couldn’t seem to keep out of one tangle or another. Between the brass and the reds and the underground, the man was always bleeding for someone, and Bethany was always there, wrist deep in crimson, praying she was enough. She was tired, Maker, she was tired. Of not ever taking anything for herself. Of promising herself tomorrows that Kirkwall would never give her.
> 
> The man at the bar–eyes like a summer sky, long legs, and rough hands–well, he doesn’t look like tomorrow. He looks like a hundred lost yesterdays, and more importantly, he looks like tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Essa and Garrett were (not) catching feelings for each other, Essa's best friend and Garrett's little sister absolutely were. Fin arrived in Kirkwall not long after Essa and Garrett's first Satinalia and yes he is all the lovely cowboy tropes. For those of you who've read Acts of Reclamation, he is also much closer in age to Essa in all of my aus. 
> 
> New to A03. 
> 
> I started the Doctor and the Blacksmith over on tumblr 
> 
> (and yes, the blurbs are supposed to read like a cheesy romance novel, I want a book cover and everything, and if you don't Bethany and Fin would frame it and put it in their living room, you're so wrong lol) 
> 
> and because I wasn't sure how to post/organize over here they stayed only on tumblr. For ease of location, I think I'll have to double post them: here chronologically and then in their own work with each fic labeled carefully. I am--after two years--still figuring out this whole fic writing thing so I'm open to suggestions.

He should have been wearing a hat, something tall, maybe white, with a wide brim, a few scuffs and dents, but then Bethany would have missed the way the dim yellow lights flirted with the deep russet of his hair. She would have missed high cheekbones just the wrong side of too sharp, and a fine, narrow nose that didn’t look as if it had ever been broken, much less a half dozen times. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, or a coat, though winter slunk through Kirkwall hungry and howling. His cheeks were fair, and bright with cold and sun.

The sun clung to him.

Bethany snapped her mouth closed before anyone caught her staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed, but not before he turned toward her, fingers easing up toward his forehead as if he meant to tip that imaginary hat he wasn’t wearing. His lips twisted, something rueful and quickly forgotten as their eyes met across tawny shadows.

Oh, yes, the sun clung to him. His gaze was blue, piercing with heat, bright as summer skies she had never seen. Those skies weren’t real anyway.  The imagination of artists and dime novel writers. The color of lonesome and wondering and miles away, an ache that spoke more to those lost within this bleak forest of steel and brownstone than to any who wandered free beyond the city.

He couldn’t be real either. 

The man had been ripped from the pictures, one of those Marcher Country Frontier Sagas her father and brothers had loved when she was young. Ranch dramas, her mother called them with a sniff of derision that never quite hid her amusement. Jeans and flannel shirts and ten gallon hats. Horses and cattle. Towns backwoods enough to make Lothering look like the big city. 

His stride alone was a contradiction, a quiet swagger harkening from an era that had probably never existed beyond the fiction.  She knew swagger, bluster too—she came from a bloodline that bore both in excess—but this man didn’t have anything to prove.  He walked like a promise long kept, slow, easy, a roll of loose lean hips not quite carrying a sailor’s swaying gait. He walked as if he were used to the earth moving beneath him, as if he knew the breath of Thedas, anticipated each rise and fall of her breast, and was determined to walk softly upon her.  He sidled up to the bar, hitched one narrow hip onto the edge of a stool, not sitting so much as leaning, and ordered a whiskey—straight up on the rocks—in a voice like smooth gravel.

There was no way the man was real.

“You’re staring,” Essa murmured, lips smug as she leaned back in her chair.

Her feet were in Garrett’s lap and he was toying idly with the buckle of a surprisingly cute pair of navy t-strap pumps. Bethany was of a mind to call them both on the display of affection, but decided she’d save the retaliation for when she had greater need. There was no harm in admitting that she was ogling one of the most incongruous people she had ever seen.

“Of course I’m staring,” Bethany conceded. “Everyone in the tavern is staring.”

Real or not, she didn’t know where such a man belonged, but she knew he didn’t belong here. He was too clean, too bright, and too damn honest. And until he walked into the  _Hanged Man_ , Bethany had thought Essa was bad.

“Is he—” She made a show of squinting across the tavern. “Is he wearing  _blue jeans_?”

As if she hadn’t been memorizing every visible inch of his long, denim clad legs…and ass, but she wasn’t admitting that to her brother and his…whatever Essa was. 

“He is.”

Corff slid the man’s drink down the bar, and he caught it gently with one rough, blunt hand before he looked up to find her watching. He lifted the glass between them in salute, shifted so that he was leaning back against the bar now, nothing between them but hardwood floor and some watered-down jazz from the jukebox. His stance was relaxed, but he was restless, didn’t seem to feel the need to hide it. There was nothing of a fighter’s stillness in his fingers. He held his drink lightly in one hand, hooked the thumb of his other in one fragile belt loop, fingertips fidgeting with the ratty edge of his pocket. A smudge of something soot-dark lay across his knuckles, but the scars beneath were from work not violence. 

She had patched up enough to know the difference.

He smiled, slow and certain, and she tried to smile back, failed when saw something too close to understanding in his eyes.

“Well,” Essa shrugged. “They were blue once.”

Fair enough. Bethany let her gaze travel down to safer landscapes. His shirt wasn’t far behind the faded jeans, a blue and green plaid, dark enough shades of each to turn his eyes to ice, his hair to flame. The boots on his feet were as scarred as his hands, maybe more; the toes had a very distinctive point.

What in the void was this man doing in Kirkwall?

“That particular pair is his favorite,” Essa continued, tone deceptively mild.

She reached for her glass, took a slow sip of water, something smug and light teasing the corners of her lips. Her grin curved against the edge of the glass and before Bethany could ask Essa how she knew him, her next comment echoed loud in the Tuesday evening quiet.

“Pretty sure one good yank would rip them clean off.”

“Essa!”

The reprimand was laughing, edges gently gilded by years of admonishing her brothers and their friends. Essa had been too easy to add to that short, precious list.

“Bethany!”  Essa’s eyes went somehow wider. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”  

The indignant blush beneath her freckled cheeks was sudden and bright.  Garrett snickered and Essa scowled at him, kicked him smartly with the foot he hadn’t been holding quite securely enough to stop.

“Dammit woman,” he muttered, leveling a glower at Bethany so that she would know she was included in his ire.

“What?” Bethany grinned, reaching for her glass of wine. She lifted in a toast above their table and was rewarded with wide, mischievous smile from her herdsman. “He’s pretty enough.”

More than pretty enough, in that rough, unfinished sort of way. And she  _had_  been wondering about the long row of faux mother-of-pearl buttons on his green and blue plaid shirt. Were they actual buttons, or those snaps that only looked like buttons? The latter was a lot easier to get into.

“Bethany Hawke!”

Garrett’s glare was worth the bravado she rarely displayed in front of him. She owed him. Maker’s breath, she owed both of them for unquantifiable mental scarring in the last few months. Bethany was debating a particularly bawdy rejoinder when Essa reached over to poke her in the arm.

“That’s  _Fin_ ,” she hissed.


	14. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: Someday Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEW TO AO3!!!! Fin's pov of the last fic.
> 
> When Fin Larkson came to Kirkwall at the behest of his best friend, he was expecting trouble. Essa had always been good at finding it, and after her brother died, half mad from red lyrium, Fin knew it wouldn’t be long before Essa decided to track down those responsible. He had been following her for as long as he could remember, wasn’t much to be done but pack up his boots and leathers, and follow her still. It might not be so bad at that, he thought. There was better money in working steel in a city like Kirkwall. Fewer horses, but a couple years burning a torch and he might have enough money for a decent spread of his own somewhere.
> 
> He's not thinking that far ahead tonight, though. Right now he's thinking about the woman staring at him across the bar. She's too fine for a place like this, certainly too fine for hands like his, but she looks like she might not care for an hour or a night. If she wants to go slumming, Fin's thinking he'll let her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and yeah...especially early on, the titles for all of Bethany and Fin's works come from cowboy songs. :D

Kirkwall, Fin thought, staring over the rim of a glass of surprisingly good whiskey, was looking a little better than when he first rolled into the town. He wasn’t fond of the city. There were better in his opinion, metropolises laid out over greater area and with a much more efficient use of space. Kirkwall was old and dark and damp, hemmed in by the sea and the cliffs around it. Generations of rot and corruption stacked on top of itself until it was wonder anyone could walk those grim streets and come home clean. He had warned Essa when she left Ostwick, but his worries had been fueled by his father’s prejudices rather than Fin’s experiences. Now that he was here, he wanted them both gone.

But maybe not tonight.

For one thing, he had yet to find Essa. She had given him the name and address of the tavern that she felt he “would most likely feel at home in,” which Fin knew meant a hardwood floor, dusty lighting, and a reasonable selection of small batch whiskeys. She wasn’t wrong. Most of their favorite watering holes fit the same bill, and this place wasn’t bad. A little quiet, but then it was a Tuesday night.

There was something low and sweet on the jukebox, music people could talk over without shouting, an unremarkable voice that didn’t remind anyone of anything they’d left outside the door. Judging by the grunts that passed for communication between them and the surly barkeep, Fin guessed most of the patrons scattered at the bar and tables were regulars. No one would be heading back out into the cold anytime soon. 

Every now and then someone would shoot a suspicious glance his way, but Fin couldn’t say he didn’t understand. He was a stranger, and Andraste knew he hadn’t tried to blend in. After nearly a year of not seeing Essa, he hadn’t wanted her to miss him in whatever crowd the city had offered. He had dressed like home knowing he might catch some stares for it.

He hadn’t quite expected to find a bit of mercy among them.

“More trouble than you can handle there, son.” The gruff warning was muttered at his back as the bartender passed by.

“I hope so,” he said behind the last of his drink. He set his glass on the bar, paid for another without turning around.

Fin believed him. He offered the woman a smile and she nearly smiled back, but suddenly there were ghosts in her eyes, something dark and uncertain lurking just beneath that glint of sunlit ice. She broke eye contact, didn’t seem to want to go wherever her thoughts were taking her, but she let her gaze travel down his body with frank appraisal. That smile hitched up again, became a little bolder, a tangle of contradiction in the space between heartbeats. It might not have been so long since he had a warm bed and warmer woman, but Fin knew he hadn’t had one like her.

Maker’s breath, she was lovely. She had lined her eyes in shadow, artful sweeps that emphasized the startling pale hue. Her lashes were thick and framed a stare that was by blinks far too serious and filled with an invitation he couldn’t quite believe. He tried to shrug it off. Even highbrow ladies like to slum it every now and then; he wouldn’t complain if she wanted to slum it with him.

Fin lifted his glass, watched her smile turn again, lips falling into a curve more cautious. Someone or something had bruised that smile, and he found himself surprised by the heat that bloomed in his chest at the thought. He wasn’t a temperamental man. He could count on both hands the number of fights he had been in and most of those had been with Essa when they were younger. Wasn’t a damn reason in the world for his fingers to be clenching toward fists over a woman he didn’t even know. Fin eased one hand toward his pocket, stretched some of the tension from his fingers with habitual fidgets.

She stood out like a new penny. Shiny, bright, something he wanted to hold even if it was just for the night. Everyone in the bar—except for him—was wearing one dark suit or another. Even the other women, but not her. She was dressed like a college student, soft grey trousers, bright pink sweater. Maker, help him, she was even wearing pearls. A single modest strand, probably her grandmother’s or something.  Her legs were crossed at the ankles, not the knee, and she shifted in her seat when she caught him looking, uncrossing and recrossing a pair of ankle boots saved from sensibility by rows of tiny, frustrating buckles. Fin had never fancied himself one for thinking too much about ladies’ feet, but he was thinking about hers now. Thinking about getting her out of more than those boots, truth be told.

What in the void was a woman like her doing in a bar like this?

She raised her glass, lipstick clinging dark as cherries to the edge as she took a sip. She muttered something to her companions without actually looking at them, and Fin didn’t spare them a glance either. Her dark hair was swept back and up, leaving her face to soak up the meager offering of dull bar lights. 

Everywhere it touched her she glowed.

Fin toasted her back with his empty glass, watched her smile flash, more confident this time, a rich laugh rising over the music at something one of her companions said. Maybe she was just looking–he couldn’t blame her, he was certainly looking–but Fin really hoped that when he got around to asking that her lips confirmed the promises he thought he saw in her eyes.

The Bartender was right; this one was trouble.

“I could use a little trouble tonight,” he decided, as much to himself as to man refilling his glass.

She was out of his league for sure, but Fin didn’t mind a gamble.  

He was answered with a grunt. “Wouldn’t be Kirkwall without it.” Broad shoulders rose in a shrug. “But you’re obviously new here, so I’m going to do you a favor.”

Fin glanced over his shoulder, winged one brow toward the ceiling.

“That big guy beside her is the Champion of Kirkwall.” The bartender added an extra finger of whiskey to Fin’s glass in commiseration. “And her brother.”

“Protective?”

“He can be.” Fin had a feeling the bartender had a gift for understatement. “It gets worse,” he added.

“How’s that? She got _two_ brothers?”

“Not anymore.” The bartender slid his glass back across the bar, dark eyes shuttered. “Don’t ask.”

He jerked his chin toward their table and continued as if the short exchange hadn’t happened.

“The woman with him is more trouble than both.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

He misunderstood, but Fin didn’t bother explaining. He was too busy preparing to take his lumps.  He watched in resignation as the woman’s companion—a very familiar figure despite the somber grey suit now that he was actually looking—leaned over to poke one sweater-clad arm.

“Bethany’s grown, not that Garrett remembers that as often as he should. If you’re looking for company, you’ll find less dangerous elsewhere.”

The bartender mopped imaginary spills with a bar rag smelling of bleach and Fin took a deep, astringent breath, hoped it would clear the fog of regret from his lust-addled brain.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said, hearing a voice as familiar as his own seal a fate he didn’t quite know yet. He started toward the table just in time to hear Essa hiss, mischief in every syllable:

“That’s  _Fin!.”_


	15. The Best Game We Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Essa x Garrett. This would be a little less than a year into their not relationship.

“I thought sex was supposed to make you feel vulnerable,” Essa mused.

Her eyes followed the lazy curls of Garrett’s cigar smoke. The wisps–pungent and sweet–disappeared before they reached the dark cove of the painted tin ceiling. She felt a lot of things with Garrett, mostly sore, generally exhausted, and if she were being honest, she would admit she couldn’t yet feel her feet, but none of her experiences with him had ever left her feeling particularly defenseless. If anything, she felt strong and a little powerful.

She hadn’t once lost control of her magic.

“It can,” he grunted. “Maker preserve you from that fate, Trevelyan.” He took another puff from his cigar, blew a ring of thick smoke only to watch the rotating fan dash its potential. “And me from suffering it again.”

Garrett lifted his head from the back of the couch to take a swallow of whiskey, ice clinking softly against Cari’s fancy crystal bar glass.

“Mabari keep us both,” Essa intoned, flopping her arm over to let gravity smack one heavily muscled bicep with the back of her open hand.

He obliged her unspoken request, pressed the glass into her lax fingers before leaning forward, body shifting cool and solid as he placed his cigar in the ashtray on the table.  

“That’s the last of it,” he warned.

She had spilled the glass before and they’d had to scramble to keep the liquor from sliding down between the cracks of the couch cushions.

“There’s another bottle under my bed. Supposed to be a Satinalia gift for Fin, but I can replace it before then.”

“You, ” Garrett slapped her playfully on the thigh as he dragged himself to his feet. “Are my favorite dame.”

Essa stared appreciatively at his ass as he lurched toward her bedroom. He was still a little unsteady, she noted with no small amount of pride.

“What about your sister?” she called just to watch him trip in indignation.

“You watch your mouth,” he grumbled, slamming her door open. “My sister is no dame.”

Essa snorted, moved her sweaty arms and legs to sprawl across more of the couch and take advantage of the fan. She closed her eyes and sipped down the last swallow of liquor, listening as Garrett rooted around beneath her bed. A muffled “HA!” emerged triumphantly a moment before he did.

“Mine either,” she agreed with a quiet sigh. “Just a little shinier. Class acts our sisters.”

Garrett shuffled back in, took one look at her and grinned lasciviously. “You’ll have to forgive me, Trevelyan, I’m not real interested in talking about our sisters just now.”

She stretched, arching her back to maximize the play of dim light and heavy shadows across her bare skin. The rotating fan finally turned back toward the couch, stirring her hair and cooling overheated skin. Garrett’s lips twitched, fighting back a smile as he paused within the ladder of murky street light filtering through the horizontal blinds.

“You are a vain man,” Essa accused fondly, kicking out one leg to prop her foot on the coffee table. She balanced their glass on her raised knee, nodded toward the bottle. “But you are pretty.”

She’d never met anyone else as comfortable in their own skin as she was, but Garrett might have surpassed her.

“I am,” he agreed. He had gotten his feet back under him and every step across the living room was an arrogant swagger. “We’re going to need more ice.”

“Only if you keep letting me hold the glass.”

He took it from her, tore the wrapping from the neck of the bottle with his teeth and tugged the cork free with his lips. Essa watched him pour the glass half full then swirl whiskey over the partially melted ice until it cooled enough to take a swallow. When he set the bottle on the table, he passed the glass back to her, feinting away from her grabbing hand until she realized he was ogling her breasts and threatened him with bodily harm.

“Sometimes you’re just too easy of a mark,” he chuckled and finally relented.

“You should be glad I’m still too blissed out to retaliate,” she groused, taking a slow sip of the higher quality single-malt. The dark amber burned its way down her parched throat and she groaned in pleasure.

“Oh, I am.” Garrett settled on the couch between the open sprawl of her knees, drawing her foot from the table and pulled her leg across his lap.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the invitation,” he explained, rubbing small circles along the inside of her knee with his thumb. “But I’m going to need…” He paused thoughtfully. “At least fifteen minutes.”

“What are you, eighteen?” Essa scoffed. “You need thirty.”

He scowled, yanked the glass from her as she giggled.

“And if you keep drinking more than your share,” she sniffed in disdain. “You’ll be of no further use to me tonight.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you ‘further use’.”

His tone was haughty. Essa stretched again to press warm and wet against his hip. She leaned up, took the whiskey from him with a smirk as he reached immediately  between them, fingers sliding greedily against sensitive flesh.  

“Maker, woman,” the words were nearly a growl. “You’re a fucking gift.”

“Double points for the pun.” Essa’s laugh broke on a moan and her head fell back against the arm of the couch. “And remember that when you have to carry me to the gym tomorrow.”

 


	16. Hunting Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Fin in Kirkwall, he and Essa continue family holiday traditions. They take Bethany and Garrett with them. Bethany and Fin are clearly struggling with feelings, while Garrett and Essa continue to insist they don't have any for one another. 
> 
> Satinalia Fluff. Sibling Fluff. Family Fluff. SFW.

“We’re what?”

Garrett stared blearily over the rim of Bethany’s least favorite coffee mug. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. Not that there was a single reason for him to have heard the words that he thought had come out of her mouth. Bethany smiled up at him from his unwelcome mat, blue eyes brighter than the early morning sky and dancing with secret merriment.

“We’re going to get mistletoe,” she repeated.

Bethany shoved a newly knitted cap down onto his head while he tried not to burn his lips on the coffee he was absolutely not breaking contact with. This one was worse than the last. A mélange of silver and gold and celestial blue.  _Moondance_  or some other ridiculous name meant to entice fanciful buyers. Garrett didn’t think his sister was one quite so given to whimsy which meant she had chosen the awful yarn purely for its color palette, knitted it up nice and thick and too big purely to add to his suffering.

Maker, preserve him, he had no idea what he’d done to deserve this so early in the day.

“Must have been something good,” Bethany mused, fingers brisk and nimble as she slouched the hat back from his forehead and fiddled with his hair.

He didn’t wear it long, but it was shaggy by midwinter and the hat had smashed the whole wavy disarray down to tickle his ears and his forehead. Bethany hummed as she worked, broken bars of a favorite Satinalia carol, while she rendered the mess of his hair into something no doubt artful above his brows. Garrett resisted the urge to yank the hat off, but that would mean putting down his coffee.

“To deserve my smiling face,” she continued unperturbed. “A cup of coffee you didn’t have to make, and…”

She pulled her other hand out from behind her back.

“Doughnuts,” Garrett groaned, setting his coffee down on the kitchen counter and folding both Bethany and the bag into a hug. “Maker’s breath, woman, you know you’re my favorite right?”

She held the bag close to his face and he took a deep breath, eyes falling closed as the warm, sweet scent of oil, sugar, and spices wafted from the brown paper bag.

“You throw that rather dubious honor around quite a lot, I see.”

Essa was standing at the top of the stairs, hip cocked against the banister. He hadn’t heard her come up, but that was to be expected. She was quiet when she wanted to be, which seemed more and more of late.

“Jealous?” Garrett asked as much to watch her brows drop down into a scowl as to distract himself from how his chest warmed upon seeing her.

She was dressed as if the cold bothered her, a grey knitted cap pulled down over her ears, cheeks bright with what Garrett assumed was mischief.  It certainly wasn’t cold enough out for her. Essa Trevelyan carried fire in more than her fists, and it took a colder day than the Marches generally mustered to send her for layers. The scarf around her neck was woven lightly, a cheerful cotton plaid, all greens, blues, greys and silver, and she was holding a mug of her own, smile hiding behind the rim.

“Better Bethany than me,” she said, jerking her head back toward the darkened stairwell behind her. “You two ready? Street’s still pretty quiet, but Fin’s parked at the curb.”

Garrett frowned, brain slowly processing bits and pieces of conversation. “Parked at the curb?” He took a sip of coffee, then a too-hot gulp, scalding his tongue. “It’s too early for this shit, Beth…what the—?”

There was a flower market just down the street. Garrett couldn’t think of a single reason they needed a truck to go get mistletoe, much less to be out at this unholy hour.

“Language,” Bethany admonished, jabbing him in the stomach with one finger. “It’s too early for your grouchiness. We’re going on an adventure.”

She might have been speaking to a surly child. Garrett tried and failed not to look offended, not that Bethany cared. Behind her, Essa blew him sarcastic kisses.

“It’s too early for an adventure,” Garrett retorted.

He turned on his heel and marched back into his apartment, trying to remember what Essa and his sister had been wearing so that he could take his cue from them.

“Never too early.” Essa followed him, tread heavier now, a deliberate stalk. “Dress for the country, farm boy.”

Bethany choked on a poorly hidden laugh.

“Do  _not_ ,” Garrett didn’t spare her a glance, even though he was beginning to think he was missing a view he wanted. “Call me ‘farm boy’. That blacksmith of yours is more of a country hick than Lothering ever had a chance to make us.”

“That blacksmith,” Essa replied too sweetly. “Has too many manners to be mistaken for a hick, but you, Garrett Hawke, are starting to show your backwoods Fereldan upbringing.”

“Say that again.”

Fuck. It was too early for the name calling, but lately, at least whenever the subject of Fin Larkson came up, it seemed he and Essa fell to it more and more easily.

“Maker’s breath, you two! Enough!”

Bethany’s irritated shout was Garrett’s only warning. He dodged a spray of ice on the floor before him cursing both women soundly. Essa more so than Bethany but only because she wouldn’t take it personally. Garrett clunked his mug and doughnuts to the counter.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Bethany huffed and for a moment Garrett felt guilty.

He wasn’t entirely certain what was going on, but she  _had_  come bearing gifts, and it was the blighted holiday. The first since their mother died. The festivities made Garrett want to hit things, stood to reason Bethany would want to keep those she cared about close.

“Beth—” He started to run one hand through his hair, stopped before he knocked off the hat she had made him. Garrett rubbed his eyes instead, not quite ready to turn back and face her. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t—“

He shook his head before she could let him out of whatever festivities she had planned for the morning.

“Go on, Beth.” He heard Essa cajole quietly. “Take his doughnuts down with you. He can have them when he’s in a better mood.”

Garrett plundered through his closet while Bethany and Essa haggled and then the door closed, presumably with Bethany and his breakfast heading downstairs.

“Here.”

Essa bumped him aside with her hip, pressed her half-full cup of coffee into his hands. She didn’t look angry with him for his crack about her beloved Fin. No, there was too much understanding in her grey eyes. 

Garrett would rather have the temper.

“Sit,” she ordered, nodding toward his bed. “Finish that. I’ll find you something appropriate and you can ogle my ass while I’m at it.”

She wiggled her hips at him and he finally got a good look at what she was wearing. Denim, not nearly as old and worn as what Fin favored, but soft and faded with years. The cotton was snug and hugged everywhere that a pair of dignified trousers wouldn’t have dared.

“If you’re wearing a flannel shirt under that jacket,” Garrett mused, taking a sip of her coffee and admiring the shape of his favorite ass in Thedas. “I might have to call in my debt.”

Essa snorted, stepped back from his closet to launch an old pair of jeans at his head. Garrett snatched them from the air just in time to take a heavy fisherman’s sweater to the face.

“I knew you had a farm girl fantasy in there, Lothering.” Essa chuckled. “You didn’t have your fill as a teenager?”

Garrett chuckled. “One of these days, you’re going to tell me where I got my reputation, Ostwick.”

He wasn’t quite sure how Essa came by her notions, but she seemed to believe he had a string of past lovers longer than her arm. Most days he played to her misconceptions, but lately the idea had begun to rankle.

“I…”

Essa frowned at him. “Get dressed,” she ordered, throwing an undershirt at him with an ire he didn’t understand. “I’m taking your coffee.”

She stalked across the apartment, grabbed the mug from the counter and all but stomped to the door. “Make sure you bring a coat and gloves. And not your good ones.”

Garrett hid his smile behind the lipstick she had left on her mug. Essa glared at him.

“And wear walking boots.” She yanked the door open, cast one last glower over her shoulder. “Not your good ones.”

Essa had made a mistake. Not that she planned on admitting it to anyone, especially not the man whose lap she was currently sitting in as Fin’s pick-up truck bounced over the uneven ruts of an old logging road. There wasn’t room for all four of them in the cab. She had known it, and she could tell by the glee on Garrett’s face as he joined them, that he had known it too. She had offered to ride in the back. It wasn’t as if she would freeze, but Garrett and Bethany were having none of it and from the shit-eating grin on Fin’s face, he would be reminding her of the ride out to the Planasene for months to come.

She had never been so simultaneously annoyed and turned on in her life. Well that wasn’t exactly true. That tangle of feelings seemed to sum up her relationship with Garrett Hawke perfectly, but it was worse within the confines of the truck, worse still for Bethany and Fin’s budding secret romance and the innocent spirits of the holiday. She didn’t know what he had been about to tell her back in his apartment, but she knew she hadn’t been ready to hear it. His dark eyes were too serious, and there had been an unsettling slant of truth to his lips.

Garrett was right—and wasn’t that a fucking nuisance all on its own—she was a terrible person and she was absolutely bound for the Black City when she finally left this world behind.

“Sorry,” Essa grunted as the truck hit a bump jarring her in Garrett’s lap.

“Don’t be.”

His laughter was a low, cool puff against the back of her neck. Essa scowled.

“You’re right,” she groused. “It’s not my fault.  _Fin_ is the one who has hit every pothole since we left Kirkwall.”

“I have not.” But he was laughing too hard to be convincing. Essa reached across Bethany to swat at him and the truck jerked across the empty road.

“Hey!” Bethany’s remonstrance was full of mirth. “No hitting the driver.”

“There’s no one out here.” Essa rolled her eyes. They were a mile deep in the Planasene Forest, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of acres of evergreen and bare-armed hardwoods. “I think we’re safe.”

“There are plenty of trees for him to hit,” Bethany pointed out. “And I would rather not have to hike back to the main road. It could be days before another motorist comes along.”

“Maybe I should drive back,” Garrett chuckled.

He groped Essa then, and not for the first time since leaving the city behind. His fingers squeezed the curve of her ass hard, palm smoothing in a gentle caress. The contradictions were driving her crazy. Essa launched an elbow back toward his face, knowing he would catch it, telling herself she didn’t care if he didn’t.

“You should definitely drive,’” she decided. “Then  _I_ can sit in the middle and  _Bethany_  can ride in  _Fin’s_  lap all the way back to Kirkwall.”

Garrett gave her elbow a shake, pinched her arm hard enough to smart through the layers of her coat and the flannel shirt his blighted comments now had her fantasizing about.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Fin offered affably.

Bethany smiled, and Essa didn’t miss the way her fingers brushed the side of Fin’s leg in consideration; Garrett didn’t either.

“There’ll be none of that,” Garrett snapped, but he didn’t sound nearly as put out with the idea as he would have a month ago. “Besides, I haven’t missed how Larkson dotes on this monster.”

He patted the door of the pickup meaningfully, and he wasn’t wrong. The truck had belonged to Fin’s father, was now an antique and coveted among collectors. Essa was mostly certain he loved the truck slightly less than he loved her. Mostly.

“One scratch or dent and…” Garrett left the consequences to their imagination. 

Essa sighed theatrically.

“And I’d be helping him hide your body.” She shook her head. “Not really the holiday spirit, I don’t suppose.”

Bethany snickered. “No, it isn’t.” She elbowed her brother. “If I turn on some carols will you two behave?”

Essa frowned. “I don’t really see how those two are related.”

“They aren’t.” Garrett slipped one hand beneath the hem of her coat, then her shirt, fingers dancing lightly along her right side, leaving a wake of gooseflesh. His palm slid up to her ribs and braced, cool and firm, holding her in place as the truck went over another bump. “That’s her way of warning us that she’s going to expect us to sing.”

“Or what?” Essa demanded a touch too sharply when he raked his thumbnail over the lace band of her bra.

“Or she’ll sing louder,” Garrett replied easily. “And make us listen to them all the way home.”

“I will.” Bethany assured them.

“It was her favorite punishment when we were children,” Garrett confided in a loud whisper near Essa’s ear. “She and Carver…”

His words faltered for half a breath, fingers tensing against her side. Bethany leapt in, voice bright.

“We weren’t punishing anyone,” she insisted, smoothly covering the slip. “ _You_ just thought you were too old for ‘such nonsense.’”

“Oh, Hawke.” Essa squirmed in his lap, as much to tease him as to distract him from years that she knew pressed too close of late. “You weren’t a Scrooge were you?”

“A…what?”

“A Scrooge,” Fin offered, slowing the truck—finally!—and turning onto a narrow dirt lane. “Obscenely wealthy miser, well-deserved reputation for making his fortune off the broken backs of the less fortunate.”

“So half of Kirkwall,” Garrett said wryly. “Well, minus the obscenely wealthy part.”

“Pretty much,” Essa confirmed. “He hated all forms of goodness. All cheer.” She dropped her voice, dragged out the next words for extra effect. “But most of all he hated…”

“Bum bum bum!” Fin sang ominously.

“Satinalia!”

Bethany’s laughter was a merry dance through the cab of the truck. “Was this a real person?” she asked delightedly.

“Maybe?” Essa shrugged. “He’s a character in a holiday play they put on every year in Ostwick. Cari used to help backstage. She would let me and Fin sit in the rafters and watch.”

Satinalia had been a big, cold affair at the Trevelyan Manor, but her sister and Fin’s father had done their best to bring the true spirit of the season to Essa and Fin.

Garrett pinched her ribs. Seemed it was his turn to distract now. “I’m not a Scrooge,” he muttered sullenly. “And I don’t hate Satinalia.”

He elbowed his sister gently and Bethany rocked toward Fin as if Garrett had shoved her. Essa bit her lip to keep from laughing. Bethany was subtle in most things, elegant in ways Essa could never hope to be, but there was nothing understated in the feelings growing between her and Fin.

Her poor brother was in for a long mistletoe hunt.

“We’re nearly there anyway,” Essa said, taking pity on him as Bethany reached for the dial on the truck’s radio. “If we roll down the windows, we can listen to the wind through the trees instead.”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright,” she relented. “We’ll have carols on the way home.”

“I’ll even sing,” Garrett conceded.

“Essa too.” Fin happily threw Essa under the bus.

“Then I get the twelve gauge,” she said quickly.  

She had been waiting for her chance. Had planned on blackmailing him instead, but this was better. This was public. Damned if she was going to be stuck with that little twenty gauge again this year.

“No fair, Essa!”

“Fuck if it isn’t, Fin! You had it last year!”

She leaned over Bethany again, this time to pat Fin on the shoulder. “It’s a good bargain, Larkson. I get the twelve, you and Bethany get cheerful holiday carols all the way back to Kirkwall.”

“You had something else planned didn’t you?” He shot her a narrowed glance out the corner of his eyes before looking back to the road.

“I did.” Essa grinned. “Trust me. This is better for you. I’ll even sweeten Garrett to the notion if you throw in two of the peppermint sticks I know you’re hiding in your jacket.”

“Mercenary woman! He already said he would sing.”

The road curved and then opened wide into what had once been the yard of a small forestry cabin. Tall dry grass brushed the doors of the truck as it slowed to a stop before the ruined log structure.

“I did,” Garrett agreed. “But I didn’t know there was peppermint to be filched.”

Essa held out her hand.

“I was saving those for Bethany.” Fin glared at her as they neared the cabin, held her stare long enough that Bethany reached nervously for the wheel.

“You have two more,” Essa retorted mercilessly. “And by rights those peppermint sticks are mine.”

Every year she brought him cinnamon imperials and every year he brought her peppermint. She knew he was just letting her think that he had been going to give them Bethany, but she wasn’t going to tell him that while she was haggling.

“Fine!” He slapped a pair of green and white candy sticks into her outstretched hand. “You better have my red hots.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

The truck braked with a bounced and Essa would have fallen in Bethany’s lap if Garrett hadn’t caught her.

“You two do this every year?” Garrett asked as the truck shut off.

“We do,” Fin said.

And Essa wisely didn’t mention what a big deal it was that he had chosen to share their tradition with the Hawkes. She was still adjusting to the idea herself. 

“Not here.” Essa opened the door, jumped out quickly lest Garrett realize just how comfortable she had gotten. “But outside of Ostwick.”

She spread her arms wide to the winter quiet of the forest and took a deep breath full of cold pine and spruce. They had driven most of the morning and there wasn’t a wisp of smoke to taint the clear blue sky. The Planacene sprawled around them, shadows thick and dark and endless.

“Your father would have loved it here,” she said, catching Fin’s gaze through the open doors of the truck as Garrett stepped down beside her.

“He really would have.”

Fin nodded, lips twisting sad and sweet. Essa reached in her pocket for the bag of candy she had brought, tossed it onto the driver’s side of the bench seat.

“Same rules as always?” she asked, looking away when his blue eyes went soft and too damn knowing.

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” he assured her.

Not for anything. Not ever. But that wasn’t entirely true now was it? There wasn’t much certainty in Essa’s life. Never had been. Still she knew that she and Fin were forever and there would always be room between them for those they loved. 

“Me either.”

~*~

There was so much history between Essa and Fin. Garrett wasn’t jealous, but he had been knocked a bit sideways when Larkson joined her in Kirkwall. He had known she was in the city looking for her brother’s killers, but he hadn’t realized until Fin showed up at  _the Hanged Man_  just how little he knew about her. Essa was open to a fault, and far too damned honest. That she had kept Fin from them meant the man was important to her. Precious. The kind of secret she wanted to protect from the taint of Kirkwall.

Garrett understood the sentiment. He felt the same about Bethany but without the luxury. His sister had been with him through everything, and he knew that only death would take her from him.

Which meant he really was just an asshole where Larkson was concerned. He didn’t have any insecurities to rationalize his feelings away. He just didn’t like the man. Or maybe he didn’t like the way Bethany looked at the man.

“You’re glaring holes in Fin’s head again,” Essa taunted in a soft singsong.

She kicked his boot, drawing his attention from where Bethany and Fin stood, too close together and too blighted happy about it.

“I…” Garrett blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.” 

He wasn’t. She didn’t sound angry though. 

“I’m trying to decide when I’ll start to find it insulting enough to deck you for it.”

Fair enough. He was still trying to decide when he would get over it.

Essa pulled a canvas bag from behind the truck seat and shoved it at him. Garrett raised a brow in askance. “Water, flashlight, snacks, map, compass.”

“How far do you plan on going?” he asked in disbelief, watching as Fin settled a similar bag onto Bethany’s back, adjusting the straps with gentle touches.

Bethany was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time in months, eyes sapphire bright and warm, rosy cheeks filled with joy as Fin straightened the red stocking cap over her dark hair. They didn’t fit, Garrett thought, for the first time without rancor. Even dressed for a day in the woods Bethany shone like a chantry bell. Her jeans were dark, well cared for if not new, and though she was wearing a high-necked grey sweater not much different than his, she had paired it with a white pea coat. Only Bethany Hawke would wear white for a day in the woods.

“She’ll leave without a speck on it too,” Essa said, following his thoughts too easily. She jerked her chin toward Fin. “He’s just as bad. Just doesn’t show so much since I swear the man still has the same clothes he wore in junior high school.”

Fin couldn’t have looked much more Bethany’s opposite, red hair poking out in fine spikes from beneath a new blue cap. He was wearing tan work pants and a beatenup insulated jacket in green and black druffalo plaid. He was pretty, in a rough way that both enticed and repelled too many in Kirkwall,  but Maker, how he smiled when Bethany brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder.

“I still don’t like it,” Garrett mumbled.

“You don’t have to like it.” Essa tucked one hand in the crook of his elbow, moving him away from the truck. “You just have to suck it up and hunt mistletoe with me.”

There was something ominous in the way she said those two words. Maybe it was that she and Fin kept saying “hunt” instead of “gather.” Maybe it was because she had just bargained Fin out of a shotgun. Garrett didn’t know, but he had a feeling that whatever it was she and Fin had dragged them out to the Planasene for, he wasn’t prepared.

“Think you can do that?”

Essa reached back into the truck, pulled the twelve gauge from the top of the gun rack in the back window. She reached in her pocket for a handful of shells, loaded the gun with quick, practiced motions before pumping one into the chamber with a surprisingly cheerful  _chick chick_.

“Uh…” Garret swallowed, watched as she slung the gun into a proper one-armed field carry, barrel carefully pointed away from all of them. He had seen her shoot of course, but handguns only. This was something else entirely, and she was not helping that farm girl fantasy he only sort of joked about.

“I think I can do that.”

“Good boy.”

His scowl was as immediate as her grin.

“First one to the best tree…” Essa called. There was ritual in the words, a call to competition.

Fin grabbed the other shotgun from the truck. He and Essa slammed the truck doors closed as one.

“Two shots with your revolver,” Fin called back. “Six seconds apart.”

“Is there some sort of wager?” Bethany asked.

“Bragging rights for the year,” Fin said.

Essa’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Winner gets the twelve gauge next year.”

Fin’s blue eyes glinted at the recent addition. “Oh, you’re on, Trevelyan.” He nodded to the woods behind Garrett and Essa. “You taking east?”

“As always.”

Garrett wisely said nothing. It was clear this was a very well-practiced tradition and he was beginning to understand that it meant something that Fin was sharing the day with Bethany.

“Meet back here in what…?”

Garrett and Bethany exchanged amused looks as Fin and Essa glanced at their watches.

“Two hours,” Fin decided.

“Two hours,” Essa agreed. “Ready?”

“Set,” Fin replied.

“Go!”

It was hilarious really. Neither of them chose a pace that might be considered remotely dangerous while carrying a shotgun, but at Essa’s shout, the energy of the day picked up just the same. Essa’s focus narrowed, steps quick and precise, every movement calculated and efficient as she led them into the forest following a trail through the evergreens that Garrett couldn’t see.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” he ventured, following her carefully into the towering blue-green shadows.

Overhead the sun was cool and distant, the sky more grey than blue. He could hear Bethany giggling as she and Fin made their way west of the cabin.

“I’m not using that twenty again,” Essa declared, stepping around the wide trunk of a fir tree.

Her gaze was on the ground rather than the trees and Garrett was beginning to wonder if he knew where mistletoe was supposed to be found.

“I got that.” He slung the strap of the bag she had given him over his shoulder. “I don’t really understand why…or what the shotguns are for…”

Essa stopped suddenly and turned back to face him. It was, Garrett realized, the first time he had ever seen her utterly and totally surprised.

“For shooting the mistletoe,” she said so matter-of-factly he could only blink at her in confusion.

“For…WHAT?”

She stared at him as if he were daft, eyes wide and bottomless with shock.

“For shoot-ing. The. Mistle. Toe,” she repeated slowly, pointing the barrel of the gun at the nearest tree and pantomiming pulling the trigger. “Really, Hawke.”

She shook her head in bemusement before turning back to her trail, leaving him to stumble along after her. Garrett rubbed his face with one hand, took a step forward, then another, wondering what in the fuck kind of backwoods Satinalia bullshit had he gotten himself into this morning.

“You can’t be serious,” he called after her.

“Of course I’m serious.” Essa turned back to him. “And if I lose because of your lollygagging, Hawke, I will seriously kick your ass. Now, come on.”

She started off again, pace more rapid this time, but silent as her footfalls landed on a heavy carpet of pine needles. Garrett hurried after her afraid that if he lost her in the thick, he would never find her again.

“Will you at least tell me what we’re looking for?”

“Deciduous tree,” Essa said, pausing in the shadow of a silver spruce. She scanned the forest, appeared to choose a direction at random, before heading off again. “Usually an oak of some sort, sometimes a birch or a sycamore. Leaves gone for the winter.”

“Alright.”

“Makes it easier to see the balls of mistletoe. We’re looking for a tree fair infested,” she continued, tone skeptical that she even needed to. “And we need to find one  _before_  Fin and Bethany do. First one to find a really good one calls the others back. If they saw a better one than yours you have to go with them to it, but if not, you win.”

Essa turned back to frown at him. “You really didn’t have mistletoe hunts in Lothering? I thought this was just something country folks did.”

Garrett gaped at her. “No. We didn’t have mistletoe hunts in Lothering.”

“Huh.” She pursed her lips, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You Fereldans are missing out then.”

She sounded so quietly superior that Garrett wanted to shake her.

“And then…?” he asked, fairly certain of where this bizarre tradition was going, but not quite ready to admit it.

“And then we take turns shooting it down,” Essa said simply, hefting the twelve gauge into a more comfortable cradle carry. “The person with the most buys supper.”

“If they aren’t in the hospital with a head full of shot,” he retorted in disbelief. “What’s that thing loaded with?”

“Duck shot,” Essa said, lips curving wide when his eyes rounded. “We tried nug shot once, but it wasn’t strong enough. Rock salt was just a whole bunch of grit in my hair.”

She lowered her voice. “That’s why I’m tired of that stupid twenty. It’s doesn’t have enough umph to really bring the boughs down.”

Garrett groaned. “You’ve brought me out here to kill me haven’t you?”

Clearly this was an elaborate plan to do nothing else. Essa snorted.

“I most certainly did not. By the Mabari, Hawke, what’s with the dramatics?”

She seemed so genuinely confused that Garrett could only laugh helplessly.

“I—You—“ He closed his mouth, took a deep breath and tried again. “You really don’t find this odd?”

It was obvious she didn’t. Essa Trevelyan thought it the most ordinary thing in the world to shoot mistletoe from a tree with a barrel full of duck shot. She was one of the craziest people in Thedas he decided. And his sister was in love with the other one.

“Fin and I have been doing this our entire lives,”Essa informed him proudly, while Garrett began to envision a comically horrific future with Fin as an in-law. It took him a moment to realize they had stopped walking. “I brought down my first ball at the age of six.”

“You—what?”

Essa drew his gaze to the oak tree above them. The branches were bare, grey-white and brittle. Great balls of green were scattered among its leafless reach. Garrett glanced around for an approximation of adequate cover.

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake.”

She read him too easily, as always.

“It’s not like you shoot directly over your head.” She grinned suddenly all dangerous mischief. “Though there was the winter Fin and I took turns shooting over one another’s heads.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Shut up, Garrett.” Garrett this time, not Hawke. He was about to tease her for the inconsistency when she pulled the .38 from her shoulder holster.

“Essa…”

She fired once high over his head.

“You have trust issues,” she said with a smirk. She was counting  _four..five..six_  under her breath; Garrett didn’t flinch when she fired again.

“I had no idea you were such a barbarian, Trevelyan.”

She holstered her revolver, stepped in close and lifted her face for a kiss he was too quick to oblige her with. If pressed, he would blame the mistletoe shining bright and green above their heads.

Essa smiled against his lips, kissed him again, slow and lingering.

“Say that like you’re not completely turned on by this whole gun-toting, flannel wearing, mistletoe hunting thing I’ve got going on right now,” she murmured.

“Shut up, Essa.”

 


	17. A Season For Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More holiday fluff. A little angst. Garrett, Essa, Bethany, Fin. Follows Hunting Mistletoe.

Bethany Hawke had known since she was a little girl that one day she would fall irrevocably in love. The Hawke-Amell legacy was unlikely to skip a generation and if she had learned anything from her parents it was that love was a powerful, all-consuming malady. When Carver got his heart broken at the tender age of thirteen by a girl too hopelessly smitten with Garrett to see Carver’s heart for the gift it was, he and Bethany had vowed to never fall in love.

He hadn’t lived long enough to break that vow, but to her great dismay, Bethany realized she was going to. Maybe she already had.

The Hawke children had learned early that such passion only brought grief and heartache.  Her parents had loved one another more than anything, and she supposed they had been happy, but not enough. Theirs was not a love she wanted in her own life.  

“You’re not her, you know.”  

Garrett slipped one arm around her shoulders, drew her close against his side as a gust of wind rattled wounded mistletoe from the tree above them. The broken green boughs rained down on a laughing Fin and Essa as they immediately began to scramble to collect the plants from the ground.

“That landed on my foot, Fin,” Essa swatted at him with a handful of botanical parasite. “It’s mine.”

“You gonna fight me for it?”

Essa snorted. “I would destroy you, Larkson.” She swiped the mistletoe from the ground, dropped two heavy handfuls into the burlap sack she had tied to her belt. “And you know it.”

“I have ways around those fists of yours, Trevelyan.”

The entire morning had been a happy spectacle. Bethany hadn’t quite been prepared for the noise of the shotguns as Fin and Essa took turns shooting clumps of mistletoe. There was something exhilarating about the hunt, however. She and Garrett had even taken turns trying their hand at the harvest. Her shoulder was still sore from the kick of the twenty gauge and she could still feel Fin’s arms around her, his chest a warm press to her back as he showed her how to hold and fire the gun. 

Fin had a way of bringing out the best in people, of coaxing them beyond their insecurities with a gentle smile and honest laughter.

“And he’s only like father on the surface, Beth.” 

She watched Fin catch Essa around the waist, spinning them both around until she squealed. Garrett leaned in to brush a kiss to her temple. 

“He’s too honest. Too quiet. Father had a smile for everyone.”

But not Fin. Fin’s smile was a gift, one he gave only to those closest to him and then in abundance.

“You still don’t like him,” Bethany assumed.

“I…” Garrett sighed.

“The truth, please.” She slipped one arm around his waist. “It’s Satinalia after all.”

The season for truth and wishes, their father used to say.

“Not for another two days,” Garrett grumbled. “But alright.”

He reached up, pulled his hat off, ran one hand through sweat damp hair. The day was warming up, but he had kept it on even as the sun arced high, and Bethany knew it was because she had made it for him.

“I don’t know what to make him,” he admitted. “Essa’s bad enough.”

Bethany hid a smile. Essa was a puzzle Garrett had been working on for nearly a year now. She was too honest for Kirkwall, too uncomplicated for Garrett. He liked to suffer in his affections. Not that he would admit it. But Bethany had seen him with Anders, had watched him pine over a young chantry sister in Lothering for most of his adolescence. 

The Hawkes liked to suffer for their love.

Bethany wanted nothing of suffering. She wanted a quiet hearth and home filled with gratitude. Love and light and voices only raised in laughter. She saw promises of that in Essa and Fin. In the family they built together and extended so easily to others. She saw that in the way Essa fought with Garrett, pushing and pulling but never with hate, never with bitterness.

And Bethany saw such promises in Fin’s eyes every time he looked at her. He saw more than most, more than she wanted him to, but in the months since they’d met, Bethany had become accustomed to that vulnerability, to the truth of it. The certainty that he saw her for who she was as well as who she wanted to be.

“They really aren’t that different,” she said.

Essa and Fin were a struggling tangle on the ground now, tickling fingers and swears scattered liberally between them. She had never seen them quite so carefree. Being out of the city was good for them. Maybe good for all of them. She took a deep breath of cold air scented with fir and pine, felt something ease around her heart, knew herself well enough to see it for the lies she had been too long telling herself.

“Enough,” Essa gasped, beating Fin repeatedly with the hat Bethany had knitted him.

In their merry tussle Bethany thought she caught a glimpse of the children they had been. They looked alike enough to be blood for all that there wasn’t any between them, same square jaw, same freckled cheeks bright with play. But Essa was dark, hair and eyes tending toward umber and shadow and Fin was nothing less than light.

His red hair was a mess of static and sun-glints, blue eyes sky bright with laughter as he caught Essa’s wrist in one hand and yanked her to the ground beside him. They lay together for a moment, breath fogging the air above them, Essa’s head pillowed on his chest and Bethany realized this was one of the reasons she loved him. He understood her bond with Garrett, and even with Carver now four years gone.

“He’s not a fighter,” Garrett mused.

Bethany shook her head. “Not like you.”

He made a grumbling sound and she laughed, bumped his hip with hers hard enough that he stumbled a half step to the side.

“But he would defend those he loves.”

Watching him with Essa, there was no question there.

“Can’t ask for more than that,” Garrett grudgingly admitted. “You don’t need my approval anyway.”

“I don’t.” She tucked herself back under his arm. “Not that it matters. I’m not certain I’m ready…or if I’ll ever be. But I want you to like him. We matter too much to each other for you not too.”

Garrett chuckled. “You talking about you and me, or you and Fin?”

“There isn’t really a me and Fin.”

They’d been seeing each other as more than friends since Kissing Day, but she wasn’t so foolish yet, nor so brave. She wondered which folly of character she needed more.

“Isn’t there?” He sounded genuinely confused.

Bethany shook her head. “I wanted him for a fling the moment I saw him.” Garrett made a disgusted noise and she pinched his side. “You really want to throw those stones?”

“No,” he said too quickly, properly abashed. “Continue please.”

She laughed. “He was having none of it. We’ve flirted a bit, dated a little, and there was a moment at Kissing Day when I…”

When she had realized it wasn’t just a comfortable romance. When she had fallen in completely in love with him.

“We talked about it.” Never without saying actual words, of course, because who was she if not a Hawke? “Agreed that maybe we should slow things down.” 

Bethany shrugged. 

“This,” she gestured between the four of them. “I don’t know what it is Garrett, but if feels like family. It feels like it did with—“

She broke off with a sigh.

“With the others,” he finished for her. “Before the bombing. I know, Beth.”

And it was more than just Fin and Essa.  _The Hanged Man_  had started to feel like home again. Fenris was still traveling, but Merrill and Bela were hanging around again more and more, and Varric was working on another novel upstairs. Essa had done nothing to bring them back together, that was Garrett, would always be Garrett, but he hadn’t exactly been the best company after Anders left town.

Essa had changed that the first time she punched Garrett in the head.

“I don’t want to mess up what we have,” Bethany said quietly. “Certainly not for a few weeks or months or however long it would take to get the sex out of our systems.”

Garrett made a strangled noise and Bethany laughed.

“Admit it,” she said ruthlessly. “I’ve owed you for this year.”

“I’ll admit nothing of the sort.”

He nodded across the mistletoe strewn ground at where Essa and Fin seemed to be content with their sprawl. They were talking quietly, half sentences and laughter, the rise and fall of history in every syllable, the song of siblings strong between them.

“He’s just—I don’t know. I guess I always pictured you with a nice suit. Someone as polished and cultured as you are. Someone to make me feel like the ruffian at the dinner table.”

Bethany snickered. “Fin doesn’t need a suit to do that.” She leaned up, dropped a kiss on his cheek. “You and Essa are the only barbarians I have room for in my life, Garrett.”

“Good.”

Fin and Essa were climbing to their feet, knocking dried grass and dead leaves from one another’s clothes. They made a cheerful picture, flannel and woolens in cheerful shades of green and blue, plaid bright against the grey winter day and the bare tree above them. Essa’s jeans were dirty and her hat was askew, brown hair tumbling down around her face. She tossed a grin their way and Bethany watched Garrett return it without thinking.

“Are you—?”

“We aren’t talking about me, Bethany.”

The warning was so quiet that for a moment Bethany’s heart ached for him. Theirs, she realized sadly, despite how easy it seemed to everyone who knew them, was not a love she wanted in her life either.

“Alright.” She wrapped both arms around him. “It’ll keep.”

“It’ll have to.” Garrett hugged her back. “You’re going to woo him now aren’t you?” he asked changing the subject.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

She wanted to. Fin turned toward them then, gaze merry and mirthful, the shape of his smile changing slightly, edges softer, bittersweet with wishes Bethany shared but that she had not yet found the courage to dare. Andraste, preserve her, how she wanted to.  

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him.” The confession was out before she could stop it, a whisper that made it no farther than Garrett’s broad chest. Love, Bethany thought with a sigh. She hadn’t thought her feelings had gotten so far as that. “I didn’t want to.”

“Oh, Beth.” He squeezed her tight. “I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

“You don’t,” she accused.

“I don’t.” He dropped a kiss on top of her head beard catching on her cap. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll break his legs.”

“If he breaks my heart,” Bethany retorted. “You’ll have to put him back together first.”

“You know that’s right.”

There was pride in his voice and she let him have it, knowing full well that Fin would never break her heart. If there was pain in their future she was the one most likely to bring it.

“Do you really think it’s worth it?” she asked, doubtful that Garrett would answer her, or that if he did, the answer he gave would be one she wanted to hear. He had grown up in the shadow of Malcolm and Leandra’s love too.

“Absolutely.”

Bethany blinked up at him as he took a step back, tugging his hat back into place.

“It’s a disaster, Bethany, make no mistake about it.” He flashed her a grin, all fight and promise, dark eyes sparkling with future mischief and past mistakes. “But there’s not much point in anything without it.”

“That the Hawke in you talking?” Bethany retorted dryly. “Or the Amell.”

Garrett smiled, gaze lingering on Essa.

“Maker, help me,” he replied, laughing ruefully. “It’s probably both.”


	18. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: Riding For a Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mutual pining. hand holding. NOT A DATE. Bethany x Fin.
> 
> NEW TO AO3!!!

  
“It’s not a date,” Fin insisted, staring past his reflection in the bathroom mirror to meet the mischief in Essa’s grey eyes. She was leaning in the open bathroom door, still dressed in her gym clothes, a bruise blossoming dark around her swollen left eye. He had very much hoped to get out of the apartment before she got home. “And I won’t be taking romantic advice from someone who thinks trading punches counts as—“

“Unless your next word is ‘foreplay’, Fin Larkson—” Essa glared at him in the mirror. “—I’d stop right there.”

Right. Fin rolled his eyes. Because whatever it was she and Garrett were doing--had been doing for nearly two years now--it damn sure wasn’t anything that could be misconstrued as romance. It also wasn’t up for discussion. Well, then, neither were he and Bethany.

“Whatever you say, Es.”

Fin finished combing his hair, debated wearing cologne for the ninth time. He didn’t usually. The only bottle he had was a small sample bottle that had come with his favorite aftershave, something light and little woodsy.  He had tried it once, thought it wasn’t too bad, but Bethany was a nurse. She couldn’t wear perfume to work, and last week she had commented that she was starting to get a little too used to wearing and washing in unscented everything.

“If you put on cologne,” Essa teased when his fingers hovered too long over the small green bottle, “it’s definitely a date.”

And this, Fin thought, was just one of the reasons that anything other than friendship with Bethany Hawke was folly. Their social circle was too blighted close, group dynamics too delicately balanced.

“It is not,” Fin repeated calmly—because any greater display of ire was just letting Essa win—“a date.”

He had never meant for the tickets to be for the both of them. A gift only. He knew how much this particular ballet meant to her.  Maker’s breath, he had nearly tripped over his own tongue when she asked him to attend the ballet with her. A man like him had exactly zero business being in some fancy theatre. He was a blacksmith for Andraste’s sake.

“And I will thank you very kindly not to say anything like that to Bethany,” Fin added.

“Uh-huh.”

Essa seemed as easily convinced as his sweaty palms which was precisely why he was meeting Bethany at the theatre and not at either one of their apartments.  Between her brother and Essa there was very little peace left in Kirkwall, and none for Fin and Bethany.

“You’re wearing new jeans,” Essa pointed out.

“Jeans,” he retorted with emphasis. “The same things I wear every day. It’s not like I put on a suit.”

Andraste’s knickers. Should he have worn a suit? Bethany had said she was going dressy casual. Whatever in the Void that meant.

“You polished your boots,” Essa continued, with too much blighted cheer.

“I  _cleaned_  my boots,” Fin corrected.

Which was something he did every other night without fail. The leather was nearly ten years old, and he planned on the boots lasting another ten years, which meant conditioning. Lots of care and conditioning. Anything worth having was worth keeping.

“This can’t be the first time you’ve noticed,” he pointed out, knowing full well it wasn’t.

Essa huffed at him, but she moved out of the way so that he could return to his bedroom. His shirt was new too, freshly pressed, a pale tan linen because it was summer and that was somehow both practical and fashion forward? Fin didn’t know. He had mostly smiled and nodded and tried not to just thrust his money at the salesman like some back-Marches bumpkin.

“Fancy,” Essa said, stopping in his bedroom doorway, mouth slightly agape. “Real fancy.”

The jacket was worse, a hint of sheen, also linen, though thicker and lined. It lay across the bed, navy over more navy. He favored the color, found an easy comfort in its timelessness. Fin liked to hang onto the things he loved, wasn’t much for changing his mind with the seasons.

“It isn’t.”

By the Mabari, he was making an ass of himself over a woman he couldn’t have. More to the point over a woman who agreed with him that they couldn’t strain the ties of their found family for what might prove nothing more than a flash of heat. Bethany was beautiful, sure. Ice in her eyes and healing in her hands, legs for days and a wit sharper than Essa’s left hook. For the first time in his life, Fin wished he owned a full length mirror.

“Do I look alright?” He didn’t dare look at Essa as he asked, fiddled instead with the plain brown leather belt he’d owned for nearly as long as his boots. At least they matched; he was annoyed that he knew that mattered to some.

“Objectively?” she asked, years of laughter in the familiar lilt of the word.  Subjectively it was difficult for them. Even as adults it was hard to see past a lifetime of love.

“Objectively,” he said, brushing one hand down his already wrinkled sleeve. Whatever teasing she might deal out, he had earned, and he’d take it on the chin because she would also tell him the truth.

“You’re a pretty man, Fin Larkson.”

Fin scowled. “I most certainly am not.”

“You are.” Essa caught his hand before he could unleash further violence against his new clothes. “It’s linen; it’s supposed to wrinkle.” She reached out with one barefoot, tapped the scuffed, but well-oiled, toe of his boot.  “The comfort’s in the wear.”

“Says you,” he retorted. But he pulled her into a quick hug all the same, muttered into her hair. “It’s not a date.”

“Good,” Essa giggled. “Because you look ridiculous.”

~*~

Dear, sweet, Maker.  The man looked like a million sovereigns. Linen and denim cut so perfectly Bethany would have suspected him of having them tailored if she didn’t know him better. His long legs cut across the busy street in three quick strides, a tread far lighter than his beat up boots always implied. He still looked out of place on Kirkwall’s dull streets, but he was breathtaking. All frontier wildness carefully corralled. He was wearing a blazer, a button up shirt real buttons, not snaps. His red hair was combed neatly to one side, no doubting drying in place from his shower, and now wasn’t that a picture she didn’t need?

Bethany cast one desperate look around trying to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the nearest storefront window. She had told him dressy casual. Summer was fast upon them and even the evenings were hot and muggy. After pulling an unplanned double shift at the hospital, she had run home, thrown herself in and out of cold shower and into a yellow seersucker sundress and a pair of low-heeled sandals. She hadn’t expected him to show up in anything but the best or cleanest version of his usual jeans and tshirt.

This was not a date, she repeated to herself for the hundredth time today, trying not to stare at him.

“Bethany.” There was glad welcome in his voice as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. She had taken two steps closer to him before she realized it, the last closer than was strictly proper between two friends. Even two friends so close as they had become in too short a time. She couldn’t imagine  _the Hanged Man_  without his laughter, nor Essa and Cari’s apartment without his low earnest voice rising with debate. Fin Larkson was a late night philosopher and there wasn’t much Bethany enjoyed so much as a glass of wine and a good-natured argument.

“You look beautiful,” he said, hand warm and just a little rough as he caught her elbow. Was it so obvious that her legs weren’t quite steady?

Bethany smiled, told him the honest truth because such was a luxury in Kirkwall. “So do you.”

His cheeks dusted rose beneath a spatter of freckles and she offered her cheek as recompense. The kiss he gave her in turn was light, nothing more or less than he would have given Essa.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t a date. He and Bethany had been, decidedly, just friends for nearly a year now. It wasn’t a date.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” He reached for the pocket of his jeans as he stepped away, seemed to think better of it. “Left my watch at home.”

His smile was soft, a little wry. It had been seven months and she still couldn’t stop thinking about kissing those faintly upturned corners.  Maybe they had been wrong. Maybe they just needed to get whatever attraction they had out of their systems.

“No, not at all.” Bethany glanced back toward the front doors of the theatre. “I’ve only just arrived.” She reached up to fuss with her still damp hair. The dark mass was unfashionably long, but she had coiled it into a loose chignon and hoped for the best. “I was worried I wouldn’t get out in time.”

“Long day?”

They quickly fell into the usual sorts of conversation, polite chitchat given weight only by their investment in one another’s lives. Bethany breathed a sigh of relief. This, this was familiar. This was harmless, soon they would be inside sitting down and the ballet would start and she wouldn’t have to worry about anything more than the performance on stage.

“We had a nurse call out for the day shift, couldn’t find a cover.”

“So you haven’t slept then.” He pulled her to a stop, turned so that he could look down at her, summer sky eyes narrowed concern.  “Are you certain you—?“

“I would not miss this for anything,” Bethany interrupted fiercely. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, pushing and pulling him in through a pair of wide open double doors. “And if I fall asleep on your shoulder, you had best wake me up.”

Fin chuckled as she handed an attendant their tickets and waited for the stubs. “That’s a promise I can only make tonight,” he said, and Bethany lost most of whatever he said next thinking about other nights when she might drift off in such a manner. “–only because the company isn’t in town for a second show.”

 _The Seawolf’s Daughter_  was Bethany’s favorite ballet.  She had seen it once as a girl, a community production in Lothering that she still remembered in a silvered haze of frantic heartbeats and childhood awe. She had never heard of a production that wasn’t Fereldan and few rarely made it across the Waking Sea. The one night showing had sold out in less than an hour; she had gotten there just in time to see the window close.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for these tickets.”

“Just dumb luck,” he explained for the second or third time since presenting her with the gift. “I happened to be walking by, remembered that you said something about liking this one.”

She didn’t believe him for a minute, more damningly neither had Essa.

“It’s my favorite.” This was a story she knew she had already told him, one late Sunday morning when they’d stayed up through the night before, bleary eyed and fuzzy minded with worry for Essa and Garrett who hadn’t yet come home from a job.  But that was one of the best parts of good friendships, sharing the same stories over and over, never getting bored because of just how much those stories mattered. “A local community troop put the show on in Lothering. Father took me to see it when I was ten. Just me.”

They had left the boys home with Leandra, and Bethany had felt so grown up beside her father in her best dress. They’d  had to sit in the cheap seats, not that she had known it then, and he had told her that at least once she had to see the production front and center, so that she could feel the music in her chest, feel the steps of the dancers shake the stage like a great pounding pulse.

_Dancers are graceful, Bethany, but never forget that grace comes from strength, from power ruthlessly disciplined._

He was teaching her magic even then. She just hadn’t been old enough to realize it.

“Did you ever take lessons?”

Fin led her down the center aisle. He hadn’t once checked their tickets, which meant he had chosen the seats with care.

“No.” Bethany shook her head. “We never had the money. I doubt mother would have let me even if we had. She didn’t like anything that reminded her too much of her own childhood.”

Bethany hadn’t let her mother’s bitterness ruin ballet for her. When she was old enough to work enough to earn an allowance on the farm, she had started saving. The first thing she ever bought with her own money was  _the Seawolf’s Daughter_ —she had worn through half a dozen albums at this point in her life and nearly married on site the vendor who’d managed to bring a memory crystal filled with music to Lowtown last year.  It didn’t matter to her who owned it once; it was hers now, along with at least eight print versions of the tale, from a small picture book that she had been given a child to an antique Dragon Age novel that had been passed down through her family for generations.  She had two books of poetry, one academic history of the Wardens, a biography of Warden Cousland, and a carefully hoarded romance Varric had written her for her twenty-first birthday, a happy ending for the Warden and her love in the place of one still lost to history.

“I’m so excited about tonight,” she said, forcing a smile no less genuine for the pall of memory. “Thank you.” She squeezed his arm. “Truly, Fin. A better gift I’ve never been given.”

His smile was warm in the cool shadows of the theatre. “I’m only sorry you couldn’t find better company.”

She hadn’t asked anyone else, but Fin didn’t know that. She’d made some excuse about not being able to find someone to go with her. Were he not standing beside her now, smelling so sweetly of good clean soap and mint toothpaste, she might have felt worse for the subterfuge.

“There is no better company,” Bethany dared.

He needed to know that, if nothing else. She might have far too many inappropriate dreams about him naked in her bed, but if she were being honest, there were as many of them just like this, little slices of a life she knew she couldn’t have.

“Beth—“

She was saved by the five minute call to curtain.

~*~

He’d had worse ideas, Fin assured himself as he sat next to Bethany in the darkened theatre. Damned if he could think of one right now. She was too close, and he couldn’t think of much beyond the press of her knee to his or the way her head felt against his arm. They were both guilty of flirting, cautious, friendly sorts of flirting that might have been benign between anyone else, but that they couldn’t indulge. They both knew why. They had both _talked_  about why. Essa and Garrett were a disaster waiting to happen, and none of them knew what the fallout was going to be. Too much depended on all of them.

They couldn’t jeopardize that for sex.  Even if he’d never wanted another woman so badly in his life. It was just the lure of forbidden. Lust stretched out over months into a false sense of longing.

Nothing more.

“Oh! This part!” Bethany whispered, pointing to the stage with pursed lips.

She was already crying.

Fin watched as Ser Gilmore fell, throwing the future warden into a gravity defying lift. His body lay extended on his side, bottom arm and leg bent to support him as he lifted Elissa high with the other, nothing more than the point of her toe shoe in his palm. The muscles in his arms were as impressive as any heavy smith’s, and the ballerina who rose over him—over them all—held her position with brutal grace, a fierce perpendicular to his prone form. One arm lifted above her head, the other reached down to Ser Gilmore, aching, hoping, losing all. Fin had never seen such grief on a person’s face.

“’Go’,” Bethany whispered. The quote was from one of her favorite books, and uttered so softly only Fin could hear. “’I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.’”

Tears were sliding silently down her face. Her hand was on the arm of the seat between them, fingers gripping the wooden rest hard enough he worried for her nails. Fin reached for her hand slowly, unsubtly so as not to startle, though he wasn’t certain if the consideration was for her or him. Her eyes never left the stage, but when the tips of his fingers brusher her knuckles she turned her palm over, quick as a cat, to catch his hand in hers.

He had heard the tale of the Hero of Ferelden, of course he had, and he’d read at least two versions that Bethany kept on her bookshelf. But there was something different here, something so undefinably heartbreaking in the minimalist sets and the sparse costumes. The mood was all lighting and sweeping music. The story told by the dancers was no heroic epic, but an unimaginable personal tragedy. Elissa Cousland had lost everything, her home, her family, her dearest love.

She had made the ultimate sacrifice to save Ferelden.

“I never realized how sad this story is,” Fin confessed as he walked Bethany home.

The night was quiet, and his ears were still ringing with the last roll of funerary drums. His heart was still filled with the sadness of that centuries old tale.

“I have a book I’ll lend you,” Bethany murmured. The whole of the ballet and a seven block walk, and her fingers were still tangled with his; Fin couldn’t bring himself to let go.  “It’s a fixit fic, and you can’t tell Varric I let you read it.”

A drift of blue jazz spilled down the sidewalk, piano low and saxophone haunting. Lowtown might be quiet this late, but  _the Hanged Man_  was not. He was sad to see how close they were to arriving.

“A fixit…fic?”

“I’m not spoiling it for you.” She reached up with her other hand, wiping the ghosts of tears from her eyes with the handkerchief he had handed her during the second act.  “But I want to know what you think once you’ve read it.”

She was staring up at him as he drew her to stop beneath the closest street light.  The sidewalk was all but empty, and the shadows cruel. He couldn’t see much beyond the too brief flash of her teeth as her smile began to fade.

“Fin…?”

She took a step toward him, a step that wasn’t there between them. Her feet staggered with his, skirt pressing against his legs. She smelled like summer on the plains, sunshine gold and wind teased through winter’s lingering up on the mountains. He was having a hard time remembering why kissing her was a bad idea.

“Remind me,” he entreated.

She was standing so close that the rise of her inhale brushed her breasts against his jacket.  Her fingers tightened in his, and her eyes fell closed on a slow exhale.

“Because when Essa and Garrett blow up,” she began, lips twisting as if she hated the taste of the truth as much as he did. “—and they will blow up, Fin. You know it, and I know it—you and I will be the ones picking up the pieces.” She swallowed hard, tongue darting out over her bottom lip. “But, Maker’s breath, if you think we can keep whatever this is to something casual and still hold the group together…”

She swayed toward him them back, fingers clinging until he thought he would feel their imprint on his for days. Maybe forever. Bethany’s foot moved slightly between his, bare calves shifting against his jeans. The press of her body without the actual weight made him greedy for more of her.

Too blighted greedy.

“Something casual,” Fin repeated. He reached for her chin, brushed the pad of his thumb over the graceful point. She flinched towards him, lips parting. He had bent his face to hers before he realized it. “A nice tumble or three on cool cotton sheets.”

She made a pleased sound low in her throat. “Something like that.” Her breath stroked over his lips, cool, sweet.  

Fin’s laugh was rueful. “Maybe a year ago,” he said, with more regret that she could know. “Maybe even before Satinalia.”

He waited for her eyes to open, waited for her to find him in the night. “But I don’t think I can be casual about you now, Bethany Hawke.” He stepped back, lifted their joined hands to his lips, and pressed as friendly a kiss as he could manage to her knuckles before he let her go. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes, I did turn my fic, the knight and the seawolf's daughter, into a ballet. :D


	19. A Dame Worth Dying For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SFW. Essa x Garrett. The prompt was "talking about sex but not having it" and they do, but it gets smutty at the end.

“I thought sex was supposed to make you feel vulnerable,” Essa mused.

Her eyes followed the lazy curls of Garrett’s cigar smoke. The wisps–pungent and sweet–disappeared before they reached the dark cove of the painted tin ceiling. She felt a lot of things with Garrett, mostly sore, generally exhausted, and if she were being honest, she would admit she couldn’t yet feel her feet, but none of her experiences with him had ever left her feeling particularly defenseless. If anything, she felt strong and a little powerful.

She hadn’t once lost control of her magic.

“It can,” he grunted. “Maker preserve you from that fate, Trevelyan.” He took another puff from his cigar, blew a ring of thick smoke only to watch the rotating fan dash its potential. “And me from suffering it again.”

Garrett lifted his head from the back of the couch to take a swallow of whiskey, ice clinking softly against Cari’s fancy crystal bar glass.

“Mabari keep us both,” Essa intoned, flopping her arm over to let gravity smack one heavily muscled bicep with the back of her open hand.

He obliged her unspoken request, pressed the glass into her lax fingers before leaning forward, body shifting cool and solid as he placed his cigar in the ashtray on the table.  

“That’s the last of it,” he warned.

She had spilled the glass before and they’d had to scramble to keep the liquor from sliding down between the cracks of the couch cushions.

“There’s another bottle under my bed. Supposed to be a Satinalia gift for Fin, but I can replace it before then.”

“You, ” Garrett slapped her playfully on the thigh as he dragged himself to his feet. “Are my favorite dame.”

Essa stared appreciatively at his ass as he lurched toward her bedroom. He was still a little unsteady, she noted with no small amount of pride.

“What about your sister?” she called just to watch him trip in indignation.

“You watch your mouth,” he grumbled, slamming her door open. “My sister is no dame.”

Essa snorted, moved her sweaty arms and legs to sprawl across more of the couch and take advantage of the fan. She closed her eyes and sipped down the last swallow of liquor, listening as Garrett rooted around beneath her bed. A muffled “HA!” emerged triumphantly a moment before he did.

“Mine either,” she agreed with a quiet sigh. “Just a little shinier. Class acts our sisters.”

Garrett shuffled back in, took one look at her and grinned lasciviously. “You’ll have to forgive me, Trevelyan, I’m not real interested in talking about our sisters just now.”

She stretched, arching her back to maximize the play of dim light and heavy shadows across her bare skin. The rotating fan finally turned back toward the couch, stirring her hair and cooling overheated skin. Garrett’s lips twitched, fighting back a smile as he paused within the ladder of murky street light filtering through the horizontal blinds.

“You are a vain man,” Essa accused fondly, kicking out one leg to prop her foot on the coffee table. She balanced their glass on her raised knee, nodded toward the bottle. “But you are pretty.”

She’d never met anyone else as comfortable in their own skin as she was, but Garrett might have surpassed her.

“I am,” he agreed. He had gotten his feet back under him and every step across the living room was an arrogant swagger. “We’re going to need more ice.”

“Only if you keep letting me hold the glass.”

He took it from her, tore the wrapping from the neck of the bottle with his teeth and tugged the cork free with his lips. Essa watched him pour the glass half full then swirl whiskey over the partially melted ice until it cooled enough to take a swallow. When he set the bottle on the table, he passed the glass back to her, feinting away from her grabbing hand until she realized he was ogling her breasts and threatened him with bodily harm.

“Sometimes you’re just too easy of a mark,” he chuckled and finally relented.

“You should be glad I’m still too blissed out to retaliate,” she groused, taking a slow sip of the higher quality single-malt. The dark amber burned its way down her parched throat and she groaned in pleasure.

“Oh, I am.” Garrett settled on the couch between the open sprawl of her knees, drawing her foot from the table and pulled her leg across his lap.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the invitation,” he explained, rubbing small circles along the inside of her knee with his thumb. “But I’m going to need…” He paused thoughtfully. “At least fifteen minutes.”

“What are you, eighteen?” Essa scoffed. “You need thirty.”

He scowled, yanked the glass from her as she giggled.

“And if you keep drinking more than your share,” she sniffed in disdain. “You’ll be of no further use to me tonight.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you ‘further use’.”

His tone was haughty. Essa stretched again to press warm and wet against his hip. She leaned up, took the whiskey from him with a smirk as he reached immediately  between them, fingers sliding greedily against sensitive flesh.  

“Maker, woman,” the words were nearly a growl. “You’re a fucking gift.”

“Double points for the pun.” Essa’s laugh broke on a moan and her head fell back against the arm of the couch. “And remember that when you have to carry me to the gym tomorrow.”


	20. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: Looking for a Place to Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANGST. Bethany x Fin. First kiss fic. Angst with healing. This is also when things start to unravel for Garrett x Essa.
> 
> cast: Fin, Bethany, Garrett, Essa, Isabela.
> 
> TW: Implied abuse, remembered past abuse, implications of being a survivor of abuse, animal abuse mention, animal death mention, canon typical violence mention.

Fin had never seen his mother in himself until today, but he had always worried she was there, sharp tongue and fast hands just waiting to strike out at those he loved. August had been a particular misery in Kirkwall this year, the heat and humidity rising together in blurs off scorching asphalt. Rainclouds hovered off the coast, black and blue promises of respite that the Waking Sea never let them keep. Tempers were hot and short around the city and too often indulged. Violent crime rates had doubled in the last fortnight; domestic abuse was a steady rise right along with the mercury. Fin had been in the city for a year and a half now and this was the first that he was truly struggling with his decision to join Essa.

“Hey, you got a minute? We need to talk.”

He was holding his temper tight in his jaw. Still couldn’t look at her without wanting to kill the man who’d put bruises on her face, and that wasn’t the answer. Fin knew it wasn’t the fucking answer, but he had never wanted to see another man’s blood so badly in his life and he almost didn’t care what it would do to Bethany for him to put Garrett Hawke into a body bag.

“For you…?” The habitual refrain died on her lips, ‘always’ lost to sudden silence. Essa tipped her head to the side, eyes wide and guileless behind mottled shades of purple, black, and that sickly yellow green. “You alright, Fin?”

She was, of course, worried about him.

“No, I’m not alright.” He caught her elbow with one hand as he stepped into her room, kept his fingers gentle—calm, easy, slow, he repeated the mantra in his head as he would comfort a skittish horse. He led her to her bed, sat her down and sat across from her. “You’re not alright.”

Her frown was one of pure confusion and somehow that made Fin twice as mad. He had known her all his life. There wasn’t more than a pair of years between them and his first memory of was her smile, of the love in her big grey eyes, the softness in her hands.

“I’m fine,” she said, not following. “But I’m starting to worry about you.”

Essa pushed her hair back from her face. She wasn’t yet dressed for the day and she looked younger, brown hair a tumble around her shoulders, a ratty tank and faded flannel pajama pants that had long been cut to shorts. Until she’d gone to the circle Fin had known nearly every scar on her body, just as she knew his. He was used to Essa tackling the world with her fists and taking her returns on the chin.

But this was different.

“You’re not fine.” His voice was rough, harsh. He almost didn’t recognize himself. He had tried working his anger out at the forge, poured sweat and fury into steel until his boss sent him home, too worried about Fin overheating in this Makerforsaken heat. “I’m not fine either for that matter.”

She reached for his hands, an easy affection through the years until she called fire to hers. Fin flinched; the answering hurt in her eyes was as bad as any on her face.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, flexed his hands against the worn legs of his jeans.  He took a deep breath, let it out half way like he had a deer in his sights, his heart pounding just as surely as it had the first time his dad took him hunting.  “Look…you and Hawke.” His gaze slid past her shoulder, a fresh storm of rage renewing, one that had yet to lessen since he saw her come home this morning. “This isn’t alright, Es. I know you’re fighters, but…”

He had watched professionals come out of match looking less abused. This was excessive, cruel.  And increasingly common over the last few months. He didn’t care if she was training. He didn’t care what excuse she gave him. There was none.

“Shit, Fin.” Essa flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Shit.” Her chest rose and fell on a loud sigh. A wince told him the inhale hurt. He wondered how many of her ribs were bruised, added another sin to the list that Garrett Hawke would answer for. “You don’t understand.”

Essa and Garrett had been doing whatever it was they were doing for almost two years now, and this was the first time since Fin came to Kirkwall that he'd seen it get out of hand, but now that he knew, he had to reevaluate a dozen other nights she'd come home beat bloody and blaming it on her job, on thugs and drug dealers, and the worst parts of town.

“I understand more than you do,” he said, reaching for her, pulling back when he saw a paler bruise beneath her skin. “This isn’t normal, Essa. Not even for boxers.”

He knew. He’d asked, interviewing trainers at a couple different clubs just to confirm what he already knew.

_“You Essa Trevelyan’s brother?” The kid waiting outside of the gym wasn’t old enough for the secrets in her eyes. Blonde hair pulled back in a lank ponytail, makeup smeared and clumping lashes. She was twelve if she was a day, and she was sporting a busted lip._

_Fin nodded. “Close enough.”_

_She jerked her chin toward the back door. “Heard you asking about her and the Champion. You gonna make him answer for last week?”_

_“Thinking about it.”_

_“Good.” She nodded sharply. “Saw him beat her into the mat once. Didn’t let up even when she didn’t get back up. Dead eyes.”_

And a dead man walking, Fin thought as Essa scrubbed one hand through her hair, wisps catching on the thick scabs across her knuckles.

“He loses control with you,” he said, quiet, all teeth, trying to hang onto his own.

“Fuck, Fin.” Essa threw one arm across her eyes. “Fuck.” Another sigh. “He doesn’t. I swear. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” He had heard it before, too many days across his and his father’s lunchbasket.

“You don’t understand what’s like to carry that kind of rage,” Essa whispered.

“Oh, I might.” Fin fought his hands back out of fists, placed one palm against her calf just to feel some solace of a touch that wasn’t mean. “And it doesn’t matter how much you think you understand, Es. This isn’t alright. It isn’t your job to—“

“Oh, Maker.” Her voice broke and she sat up so fast she almost knocked her forehead into his. “Is that what you think?”

“That your lover has been beating the shit out of you all summer?” Fin demanded. Maybe longer. Though it made him sick to think of it. “How could I not—?”  Had she been avoiding mirrors?

Essa shook her head. “I asked him too.”

“Bullshit.” Next she was going to be telling him about some oceanfront property in Kal-Sharok.

“I did.” But she wouldn’t meet his incredulous stare. “The rage is mine,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “You think Kirkwall’s any kinder to me this time of year?”

“Bullshit,” Fin repeated. The entire idea was ludicrous. Did she really expect him to believe that she asked Hawke to beat her to a pulp every week?

“It’s not.” She turned toward the window. The early afternoon sun, gilded every bruise in gold as she stared somewhere between her and the last press of Kirkwall’s blighted summer. “I should have thought of you though…I’m sorry.”

“I’m not worried about me, dammit. Essa, this—“

He lifted one hand toward her face, but she didn’t startle, didn’t flinch as anyone might who took regular hits unsought. She tipped her cheek into his palm. Her skin was cool, too cool for anyone this time of year, and far too cool for Essa.

“I think I’ll stay out at the cottage for a few days.” She closed her eyes, nuzzled her face deeper into his hand. “Will you tell the others?”

He held her, fingers trembling as if her cheek were made of fine, thin glass still filled with breath and fire and too close to breaking.

“I’ll tell them.” He eased away and she looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “Put some elfroot salve on those bruises.”

“Fin.”

He shook his head. There wasn’t anything more she could say—not right now—and certainly no reply he might offer that would comfort either of them. Essa had never once lied to him, but his heart wasn’t ready to believe what she was telling him.

“I’ll be out tomorrow.” If he wasn’t in jail for assault anyway.  Aveline might threaten to crack Garrett in the skull often enough, Fin wasn’t sure she’d appreciate a blacksmith’s hammer beating her to the punch. “We’ll talk more then.”

“Alright.”

She was still fighting tears when he left and, even knowing he was in the right, Fin couldn’t help but feel like a monster for having put them in her eyes. Hawke would answer for that too, he decided.

~*~

The walk to  _the Hanged Man_  didn’t help, nor did the way strangers moved out of his way, as if with every step through Lowtown Fin was becoming just as bad as the worst of them. A man to watch, a man to fear.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that look on your face, sweet thing.”

Isabela’s voice was as low as the old jazz number drifting from the jukebox, but it made it to him as she crossed the tavern to intercept him. There was a wary edge beneath her usual casual flirtation; she was watching him too.

“Is he upstairs?” Fin didn’t bother dissembling. There was enough subterfuge in this cursed city and, starting today, he was dragging everyone’s transgressions out of the blighted shadows.

“He is.”

She stood between him and stairwell, hands on her hips and close to the knives he couldn’t see. Her smile was just a little dangerous. The tavern was cooler than the streets but not much and in another few hours it would be crowded enough that the difference wouldn’t matter.

“Bethany?”

Fin wasn’t going to keep anything from her, but he’d rather have the conversation with her brother now and ask forgiveness from Bethany later.

He had been in this fucking city for too long, that that sounded like wisdom.

“It’s Thursday,” Bela reminded him, a frown marring her forehead. “She’s in class until four.”

Which gave him a good hour, more than enough to break Hawke’s thumbs if he decided he needed to.

“Bela…” Fin wasn’t sure what he was going to say. If he was going to order her to move or ask her to. He had never deliberately intimidated anyone with two legs in his life, and if he was starting today it wouldn’t be with her.

“Oh, sugar.” She reached for his arm, smile warm with understanding. When he started to pull back, she patted him affably.  “It feels like you’ve always been here. We forget you spent last summer in Starkhaven.”

He had taken a three month apprenticeship, had thought it best to give him and Bethany some time apart. Neither one of them could really see straight for wanting each other, and they both had known that anything between them was impossible. He hadn't realized what he was missing.

Fin opened his mouth to ask Bela, but she waved him silent. “Go on upstairs. Maybe you can talk sense into him where the rest of us have failed.”

Right. If that was what she wanted to call it, Fin wasn’t going to correct her. She searched his face, eyes whiskey dark in the low light of the bar. Whatever she was looking for she must’ve found; she stepped out of his way without another word.

Fin took the stairs one at a time, counting breaths, ratcheting down his temper until he reached Garrett and Bethany’s door. He let it take the force of a pair of hammer punches masquerading as knocks. The oak was nearly as old as Lowtown, as sturdy at the bar Corff tended with so much love; it could take it.

“Hawke.”

He didn’t know if he could hear him, didn’t care. He was giving the man one solid minute and then he was kicking the damn thing in. Fin had counted to thirty when the door opened a crack.

“Larkson.”

He was scowling up at Fin—which meant more than the height difference between Hawke’s bare feet and Fin’s work boots—and if Essa’s face looked bad, Hawke’s looked worse, just not quite in the same way. His eyes may have been surrounded by fainter bruises, but they were bloodshot and heavy-lidded. He didn’t look as if he had slept, which was a marked change for Essa who, bruises aside, had come in sounding like she’d slept a full night of dreamless wonder. Even with most of the door between them, Garrett reeked of bourbon, and not the good stuff made for sipping.

“What do you want?”

The snarl was angry, but it was wounded, a bear cornered and frightened, not enough fight left but clinging to all he had. Fin might have felt sorry for him, but he knew guilt when saw it.

“You really need to ask?”

There was a rattle of chain and the door opened wider, a matched set of frowns between the two of them. Garrett was leaning hard against the kitchen counter, shoulders low, knuckles bandaged with gauze, neat white rows of medical tape an obvious sign of Bethany’s care. Somehow that only made Fin angrier.

“How bad?”

He wouldn’t look Fin in the face, and his complexion was more than a little green. Fin waited for an old song to pass Hawke’s lips. Something to the tune of “I didn’t mean to” or “you know how mad she makes me.” He’d heard them all growing up, different pronouns, but the same bullshit excuses. Guilt and remorse as useless as ash.

“Bad enough,” Fin said, stepping into the apartment Garrett and Bethany were sharing for another week. “Bad enough that I’d do the same to you if I didn’t think it would make you feel better.”

Garrett’s smile was bleak and bitter, acknowledging a point scored that Fin didn’t want. He paced across the small kitchen, stopped in front of a white wooden table he and Bethany had spent a weekend painting and then carefully distressing. Cottage chic or something she called it. For months now she had been slowly acquiring furniture and décor for the new apartment she was so excited for.  Fin hadn’t thought anything of her starting out on her own—she was more than old enough—but everything about Essa’s face had him questioning.

“She says she asked for it.” Fin twisted the trite line just so, snapped it out with every intention to wound, watched it make its mark with a grim satisfaction that only made his fists ache. “You’d better spin that into something that doesn’t have me taking my hammer to your knuckles or burning your body later tonight.”

He hadn’t yet decided which was the better way to go, ruining the man for the life he had chosen, or removing him from lives better off without him. Fin only knew that he meant it.

“She did,” Garrett said.

There was an empty bottle tipped over on the table, a glass near it holding one last swallow, the curving edge of sticky brown ring peeking out from beneath it with no regard for anything or anyone.

Fin was back to wanting to punch him.

“But not like you mean.”

He closed the door behind them, a quiet click, a heavy bolt, the scratch of the chain. Fin didn’t know if he was locking them in or trying to keep someone out, but there was something coarse and broken in every terse movement.  Garrett plopped down at the end of the table, long legs sprawling, elbows to oak, chair near tipping out from under him.

“I’d offer you a drink,” he said, picking up his glass, “but as you can see, this is the last bit of mercy in the whole fucking place.” He tossed the bourbon back then squinted up at Fin. “You haven’t come bearing mercy, have you, Larkson?”

“No.”

Fin crossed his arms and waited. Sunlight poured through the blinds, pooled across scarred hardwood floors. Silence stretched with that narrow ladder, shadows growing heavier than Fin’s patience.

“She fights her magic with both our fists,” Garrett confessed. “Some nights it’s not enough. Some nights, she can’t see me across the canvas. Only a fade-shivered, looming thing with Rage in its eyes. Those are the nights she begs for oblivion.”

“What?”

“You thought I was—“ His bark of laughter was rueful. “Well, can’t say as I blame you, come to that.”

Garrett kicked the nearest chair out to him, and Fin sat before he fell.

“She…what?”

“Her temper,” Garrett continued. “Her demon.” He spat that last. “The Rage that rides her harder than anything else. Last night we busted up a dog fighting ring—“

“I thought you were moving magelings.”

“We were rescuing magelings,” Garrett corrected. “Had a lead on where some were being kept. It’s usually bad enough. Children kept in cages.”

By the Mabari, Essa’s rage would have been inconsolable.

“But last night…” Garrett picked up his glass, took an empty swallow. “They were using the kids as bait. Teaching the dogs to fight and to hunt.”

 _Fuck._  Fin stared across the table at him.  _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._  He was afraid to ask what had happened.

“We got the kids out. Killed a dozen men and at least a dozen mabari in the process. Essa saved two of the smallest. A mother and pup, both half-starved and being used right along with the kids. She thinks she can rehab them.”

There was wonder in Garrett’s eyes, and Fin thought that was somehow worse than the all the rest.

“But she wasn’t alright.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t lay the job down and move on like she usually does. Not last night.”

“No.” Fin swallowed hard. “She couldn’t.”

“So, yes.” Garrett ran one hand through his unkempt hair. “She asked for it.”

He lifted his stare, met Fin’s eyes without flinching. “Tears in those big eyes of her.” Cold despair dropped every word between them like a stone. “Magic sparking blue as justice against all that grey.” He gripped his empty glass between his hands. “You ever seen her like that, Larkson?”

He knew Fin hadn’t. Fin knew he didn’t have to say so, but the words emerged between dry lips.

“No, I haven’t.”

“She dreams of burning.” He was relentless now, punishing them both with every admission. Fin couldn’t blame him. He had come looking for pain, and by the Mabari, he had found it. “She’s afraid to sleep.” The glass strained beneath his open fist, popped with a loud crack. Garrett set it down before it shattered. “Afraid not to.”

He closed his eyes on a weary sigh. “So, yes,” he said again, with brutal finality. “She asked for it.  _Begged_. And Maker, forgive me, I’m the only one who can give it to her.”

Fin pushed to his feet, held onto the table when the room pitched around him. He needed fresh air. He needed sunshine. He needed a hundred miles between Kirkwall and Essa.

“Find another way.”

“What?” Garrett looked up at him, a mix of confusion and outrage on his face. “You think I haven’t tried everything I know but getting a fucking templar to silence her?”

Fin blanched. “Fuck. You—“

“Yes, I know about her  _fucking_ brother.” Garrett was angry now, helpless with it. Fin had no trouble recognizing the same impotent fury currently burning in his veins.  He shoved to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor with a loud bang. “I know about the circle. I know about her nightmares and that until me she hadn’t let anyone put their hands on her in three fucking years.”

Essa’s secrets lay like accusations between them, edges so sharp Fin thought he was bleeding right along with her and Garrett.

“I don’t care!” he shouted. He slammed his hands to the table, hard enough to send the bottle and glass clattering the floor in a shatter of shrapnel. “I don’t care,” he said again, more quietly. “You find another way. You find another way, Garrett. If I see bruises on her like that again, I’m coming back with my hammer, and I’ll give you exactly the beating  _you’re_  asking for.”

~*~

Fin had never seen his mother in himself until today, but he had always worried she was there, sharp tongue and fast hands just waiting to strike out at those he loved. He stared down at his hands now, fists clenched too tight, knuckles smeared with blood and dried molasses. He had never been so angry in his life, nor felt as lost.

There was pair of bags of sweet grain busted on the ground before him and Tess, his favorite mare on the force and too clever by far, was currently picking at her stall latch, determined to come check on him and steal a bite or two. She was the best for the worst of the mounted patrols, cool headed and agreeable until she wasn’t, then she was stubborn as a mule. Fin was lucky to have found such a place for him in the city. Horses and steel and calm beneath the smoke.

Tess whickered as if she knew exactly what he was thinking and agreed with him. Fin tried to find a smile to give her and failed. He didn’t feel any better for having unleashed his temper on something. If anything he felt worse. His hands were building not destroying. He had known that since he was a boy.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Fin startled hard at the low greeting. His muscles were still shaky with adrenaline’s abandonment and had he not already been on his knees in the barn, he would have fallen.

“What are you doing here?” Every word was as brittle as Fin felt.

Bethany stood just inside the wide double doors. They’d been left open in deference tothe heat, and the sun was setting behind her. Not that you could see the sun this time of day in Kirkwall, only proof of its descent. Shadow lay between them, heavy and impenetrable, obscuring her face as she watched him, leaving Fin with only the impression of a slim silhouette and implacable grace.

“You’re here,” she said, as if that made all the sense in a world that didn’t anymore.

Come to that, maybe it did.

“Bethany—“

As protests went Fin knew it was weak. Her name was a plea, layered with every word he couldn’t give her. Every desperate fight he had already lost with himself. Fin dropped his hands to the bag before him, palms to either side of the damage, fingers spread wide. He took a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the familiar scents of grain and horse and hay. He couldn’t image what she must think of him. She was born of and among fighters. Here he was on his knees beating on bags of horse feed.

“Shh….” Her fingertips brushed his shoulder, and Fin recoiled, the motion immediately reminding him of the wound he had dealt Essa earlier that day, but too late to stop it. He didn’t dare offer apology. There was none he could really give.

Fin closed his eyes, not daring to look up, too afraid he would see his own judgment reflected in her eyes.

“Shh…” she breathed again. Her fingers moved from worn cotton to the the nape of his neck, a shiver of cool in the slow waning heat. She circled around him, steps bringing her close, but close enough. “I’m sorry.”

“What…?” What could she possibly have to be sorry about? “I threatened to kill your brother today.”

And he had meant it. Even if it cost him Bethany. Even if it cost him Essa. He had meant it–still meant it–all pity aside.

Bethany chuckled. “It’s Justinian?” she asked.

Fin blinked up at her. “Yes?”

“Varric owes me next semester’s tuition,” she replied, lips pursed. She was speaking lightly, voice even and words unhurried, as if she was afraid he might bolt.

She wasn’t wrong.

“Took you longer than the rest of them thought,” she continued, coming around his right side.

Tess finally got the latch on her stall open. The soft clack was followed by a louder thud as she pushed the door open, then a slow clomp as she made her way down the stable aisle. Bethany reached down for a handful of grain, offered it to the mare before she could crowd Fin.

“They can’t—“ Fin shook his head, fought for words, found them still too close to wrath.

“No,” Bethany agreed.

Fin caught her hand before she could brush grain and horse slobber to the leg of her white linen trousers.  Her fingers curled against his as he lifted the tails of his shirt to clean her palm. Bethany was always dressed to the nines, even the summer heat couldn’t contend with her. He could never quite get enough of seeing her at the barn or the forge, not a single hair out of place, not a smudge or a wrinkle.

“And after last night they both know it,” she added. "This summer has been so much worse than last."

Tess was pushing closer, head dropped low to sniff Fin’s face in concern. Bethany stood between them, one hand on the bay’s neck, one on Fin’s. Stalwart and true. Unshakeable. She smelled like winter, silver blue with ice and magic, a touch of pale green for healing. He didn’t realize he had wrapped one arm around her legs until he had done already done it, didn’t realize he had his face to her knees until her hand tangled in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Bethany said again, voice catching; she held him close for a single endless moment and Fin thanked the Maker for kindness he knew he didn’t deserve. “I’m so damn sorry, Fin.”

She slid to the ground in front of him, knees catching on the bag of feed, tipping her forward into his arms where she belonged. Tess may have helped. The horse was just as close, forehead pressed to their sides until the only way Fin had of keeping any sense of balance was to throw one arm around her head.

“I’m here.” But she shouldn’t have been. She needed to be as far from him as she could get. He was about to tell her so when her arms wrapped tight around him. “Fin.”

There was affection in that single syllable. Maybe something more they didn’t need to think about. Bethany held on for a pair of precious heartbeats, and he knew that he owed her an explanation. Knew that one day he was going to have to explain the worst of his mother. That it hadn’t been having her, that it was knowing how much of her lived on in him.

“Let me see your hands.”

He could feel the first subtle answer of her magic, noted curiously that Tess didn’t seem bothered by it, though horses were usually not fond of mortals pulling on the Fade. Fin shook his head. He knew what healing cost her—the real cost—not mana or energy. The last thing he wanted was to touch her with hands filled with violence.

“Fin.”

An order this time. She pushed herself up, putting just enough space between them to look at him. She was still too close to fight him, but then, he was too close to offer much struggle, and Tess—damn her—was only too quick to oblige Bethany in exchange for another bite of grain.

“They’re not so bad.” Her tone was brisk, professional. She clasped his hands lightly to her left forearm, angling his knuckles toward the bright spill of late evening light with one tilt of her arm. “You’re a blacksmith, not a fighter. What were you thinking?” She lifted her right hand and he watched it fill with magic. ”Your form is shit.”

“I can throw a punch when I need to,” he grumbled, which wasn’t the stupidest thing he had said today, but it was close.

“I’m sure you can.” Healing danced over his knuckles, a sting of knitting flesh, a balm soothing in its wake. “You probably didn’t get sloppy until the end when you’d worn yourself out. Though I don’t want to know how long that took.” She spared the burlap beneath her a glance.“Feel better?”

“The hands, yes.” Fin slipped Tess another nibble, scratched her jaw as much for her comfort as his.

His heart, not so much.

“We should have tried to warn you more.”

Bethany sat back on her heels, still perched precariously on him and the feed bag. She didn’t look a bit out of place. Her makeup still morning perfect; her black hair was pulled back from her face with a pair of silver barrettes. She didn’t belong kneeling in a barn behind the Watch House with a blacksmith from Ostwick.

“Fin?”

Dwelling on those thoughts weren’t going to do him any good either.

“You couldn’t have.” They had tried, even Essa. He just hadn’t known what to make of it all. “Nothing would have prepared me.”

A lock of her hair fell forward as she swayed before him, a thick bit of almost curl that swung past her cheek. Fin fought every impulse not to reach up and tuck it behind her ear.

“I didn’t think so.” Her eyes roamed his face, asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer.  Answers he knew he owed her. “We—“

“It’s going to be really bad with those two,” he said instead.

“It already is.” She reached up to rub the spot between her eyes. “They just can’t see it.”

“Ruin.” Passion made fools of too many, left aches and bruises and hearts in shambles. His father had loved his mother, even with every wound. Even after she left. Even unto the day he died.

“Ruin,” Bethany confirmed.

She shifted slightly and her knees bumped his.

“You really came all the way down here…?”

“To check on you?”  She caught her balance with both hands, palms light on the tops of his thighs, weight forward. Her hair brushed his chest, tangled with the top button of his shirt. Her breath was a cool puff against his chin. “I was worried.”

Her bottom lip was between her teeth and she didn’t look worried. Fin thought that maybe he should be.

“I’m not looking for ruin,” he said, suddenly enough to startle himself right along with Bethany and Tess.

Bethany’s smile was fragile, a little wan. “I’m not either.”

He believed her; he thought maybe she had seen too much of as well.

“Then what are you looking for?”

There had been a time when it was passion, then that was denied. A long time after that when it was friendship, cautious but true. Whatever he had for Bethany Hawke was more than either of those, more than both.

“You.”   

Her lips touched his, a whisper, a dream, a balm in the midst of too much smoke and fire, and so quick he might have missed it, had his heart not leapt into his throat. It was just a kiss, Fin tried to assure that pitiful gallop, a bit of comfort, and sorely needed. The moment was too fraught for anything else, and the day–

Bethany leaned closer, kissed him again, a chaste peck that cooled his skin, calmed the chaos of his thoughts until he saw the longing in her gaze. Fin touched his thumb to her chin, brushed his healed knuckles along her jaw, watched her eyes darken just before they closed. Her skin was porcelain and silk, and he didn’t think he’d ever felt anything so soft in his life. Ruin. Absolute ruin. She could not be looking for him.

“I am though,” she said, and he realized he had spoken aloud.

She placed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, this one warmer, wetter. Bethany pulled herself closer, one gentle hand nudging Tess firmly aside, until she was straddling his legs, smile hesitant, but lips much less so as they placed another seeking kiss to other side of his mouth.

“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t looking for you, Fin Larkson.”

Fin wrapped his arms around her, one hand splayed across her back, the other cradling her neck. Gently, he reminded himself. Calm, easy, slow. Bethany made a little sound of approval as she settled in place, one arm around his neck, the other free to ward off Tess.

“I’m only sorry it took me so long to find you.”

“But you did.”

For all that Fin was half convinced that none of this was real. It couldn’t be. How had he gone from lost to found, from fury to forgiveness, in the flash of Bethany Hawke’s smile?

“Yes.”

She smiled when he caught her sigh with his lips, and she teased both from him with a slow, careful kiss. Still unsure, but daring and sweet.

“Yes, I did.”


	21. The Bitter and the Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing Day (which is a totally made up holiday of mine, kinda like Valentine's Day only in the fall ) preparations with the Hawke siblings. Some angst, some fluff. 
> 
> Kissing Day has always been an important Hawke Family holiday with baking and celebratory traditions that Bethany and Garrett have always tried to hold onto.

Holidays had always been complicated for the Hawkes, though since their mother’s death, Bethany did her damnedest to sweeten the bitter dregs of lives spent too much on the run. There wasn’t much hope of saving Satinalia. Garrett didn’t remember a single Midwinter morning when he hadn’t woken to his parents arguing. Leandra had never quite reconciled the wealth of her own childhood memories with the meager fulfilments she and her husband had to offer their children. There wasn’t a carol that didn’t bear the discordant trill of his mother’s voice twining in memory’s disharmony. The last one, of course, had been the worst. Bethany insisted they needed to make new memories, but Garrett didn’t think he would ever forget how Leandra’s discontent wounded his father year after year. They hadn’t had much, but Malcolm had loved his children, and he had worked hard to give them what he could.

Without Leandra’s unhappiness, they might never have known how little they had.

“You look like him more and more,” Bethany murmured from the open bathroom door. There was a wistful smile on her face. Something not quite forced. He wondered if the shadows would ever fully leave her eyes. “Maybe if we’re lucky, you’ll live long enough to see some silver in your hair.”

Garrett, fresh from a shower, was wearing a pair of old flannel pajamas pants and a red sweater that had belonged to their father. He met her gaze in the mirror, did her the favor of not returning the sharp edge of a similar truth. She was the image of their mother, colors inverted like a photograph’s negative. Leandra had been shades of gold, deep brown eyes and honey hair, warmth in her features if not in her heart. Bethany was a cold contrast, long hair as black as ink, stare as blue and brutal as a lightning strike, skin like frosted cream when her cheeks weren’t blushing bright as a Kissing Day rose. She was beautiful, as Leandra had been, but if her lips smiled less often than their mother’s had, they were more genuine.

There was not a heart in all of Thedas that loved as deeply as his sister. Not even with the whole of Kirkwall turned out in competition this week.

“Should have gotten his eyes.” Garrett flashed a cocky grin. “Wasted on the likes of you.”

Bethany laughed. “You hope.” She batted her lashes at him. “You would be grey within a month if  _I_ started flirting with every suit that glanced my way.”

“You wound me.” Garrett reached in the medicine cabinet for a comb, began putting his beard into neat order. He didn’t mind admitting he was vain about it. He tended to look far too young clean shaven. Some of those grey hairs might not be so bad. “I don’t flirt with  _every_  suit.”

“Well, not anymore.” Bethany leaned against the door jamb, crossed her arms over her Kissing Day apron. The black cotton apron was covered in crimson hearts and scarlet lips. It had belonged to their father in another life. “Are we ever going to talk about that?”

No, they weren’t. And certainly not today. There might not be much hope for Satinalia, but Kissing Day was something else entirely.  The only holiday Garrett could remember that wasn’t tainted with his mother’s melancholy. Falling at the end of harvest season, Kissing Day had been Malcolm Hawke’s favorite holiday and was, as far as Garrett could tell, the only one Leandra thought they celebrated properly. No matter where they lived, Malcolm had doted on all of them, filling their home with the scent of baking things and soft, cheerful music. Once they settled outside of Lothering there had been roses from Leandra’s garden.

_“Kissing Day is about more than romance,” Malcolm assured his children, even as he pulled his wife into an impromptu dance. Leandra’s eyes were sparkling, hands soft upon Malcolm’s shoulders as he spun them beneath a kissing ball. “It’s about love, no matter the shape of it.”_

_Garrett was thirteen, and had no use for any of those shapes. His father tossed him a wink, dropped a kiss on Leandra’s nose._

_“It’s about making certain those who love know that they are loved.”_

_“Seems a shame people need a day to remember that,” Bethany said pertly, glancing up from her lessons with a frown._

_She and Carver were eight years old and she was just beginning to distrust such things and people right along with them. Garrett couldn’t blame her. Love had been a mixed blessing in the Hawke house. By turns both sharp and achingly sweet._

_“It is,” Malcolm agreed. “But a greater shame to let such a day pass in silence, don’t you think?”_

“Garrett?”

Bethany called him back from his thoughts. She had never let a single Kissing Day pass in silence. Even the year their father died when Carver and Leandra both were determined to punish her for her persistence.

“You look far too serious to be thinking about Essa,” she worried.

“Because I wasn’t.” Andraste’s ass. He wasn’t always thinking about Essa Trevelyan. Garrett rolled his eyes, affected a maudlin tone. “I was thinking about all the cookies we have to bake.”

She snorted, not bothering to hide her derision. “You complain about that every year. I know the look well. That wasn’t it.”

He couldn’t decide which conversation he dreaded more at that particular moment, the one about their family or the one she had been trying to have about Essa for the past few months. May as well get the latter over with.

“It’s just a rebound, Beth.”

One perfectly arched brow winged toward her immaculately upswept hair, but Garrett pretended he was too busy grooming to notice. The last thing he needed was her skepticism.

“For her too, if you must know,” he continued. “We’re on the same page. Don’t know why the rest of you can’t get there.”

Bethany rolled her eyes, the gesture so like his that Garrett couldn’t hide his grin.

“Because you seem happy.” She accused, chin lifting, some of their father’s stubbornness hardening her glare. “Maker forbid anyone would want you happy, Garrett Hawke.”

As if he were even capable of something so clean and bright. As if Kirkwall would ever let him have it. He opened his mouth to say so, caught the curse for what it was between his teeth and smiled with tight lips.

“You really want to throw that particular dart?” he asked finally, running one hand through his damp hair and scattering water droplets.

She wasn’t much better than he was at allowing herself to have anything but misery. He hoped Fin Larkson might bring her something better. At least when he wasn’t thinking about the ways he might have to hurt the man.

“Not quite yet,” Bethany grinned, thoughts following his so easily. Too much of one mind, Leandra had always accused; Bethany and Carver had been even worse. “But I’m working toward it.”

Garrett put his comb back in the medicine cabinet, closed the mirrored door with a click. She had suffered the most, he thought. Of all of them, Bethany had been the closest with their father. Losing Carver had nearly destroyed her. Would have, if Leandra’s grief had had its way. She blamed Bethany for living, not that she would have ever said so, but Kirkwall had been the final wedge between her and her children.  Garrett and Bethany had moved out one bleak Satinalia evening amid a storm of tears and shouting. He couldn’t watch his sister’s heart break every day, seeing the resentment in Leandra’s eyes.

She had been murdered before they could make peace.

“About time,” Garrett said gruffly. He reached out, caught his sister’s wrist and dragged her into a hug.  “About fucking time.”

“Dammit, Garrett!” Bethany protested on a gasp, head tucked beneath his chin, arms tight around his waist in direct contradiction of her complaint. “You’re crushing me.”

“Gotta get in what I can,” he shrugged, easing up just enough that she could draw another breath to curse him again.

He didn’t say anything about her moving out. He had all evening to complain while they broke in her new kitchen.

“I love you,” she mumbled, poking him in the ribs hard enough to bruise. “You know that right?”

He did. And she did. Because the Hawkes had learned not to let important things go unsaid.

Garrett chuckled. “If I don’t, I’m sure I will by Saturday. All of these cookies better not be just for Larkson.”

~*~

“Alright, Bethany…”

The dread in Garrett’s voice was all the more beautiful for its predictability.  There weren’t a lot of constants in Bethany’s life, but her big brother had always been one of them.

“Where’s the sugar?” he sighed, staring morosely at a stack of cardboard boxes.

She had only taken occupancy just that morning, and most of her—pitifully few—boxes were not yet unpacked.

“It’s where it always is,” she answered, snapping a dishtowel at his ass and earning a yelp.

“What in the Void was that for?”

“Asking a dumb question.”

She was predictable to a fault and they both knew it. Garrett opened the cupboard by the sink, smile tugging his lips from the scowl he was trying so hard to maintain. Beside the canister of sugar was a bottle of wine, a bag of sea salt, and hearty wheat boule. Salt for spice of life, bread so that none within their walls would ever go hungry. Sugar for sweetness.

“Wine for joy.” Garrett finished the thought aloud. “Are we drinking this tonight?”

The tradition had been their father’s—as had the glass and stainless canister—something he had heard on an old Satinalia radio show when he was a boy. Old world blessings, the first things unpacked in every new home.

“That’s tradition too, isn’t it?” Bethany rummaged in one of the boxes for a pair of stemless wine glasses.

Their family had moved around a lot when they were little. Seemed they hardly ever had a chance to get settled somewhere before the Templars got too close and her father packed them all up—usually under cover of night—and whisked them off to someplace new. Bethany had attended six different schools before she finished her fifth year. Except for the farm outside of Lothering, the four years that she and Garrett had been in Kirkwall was the longest they had ever lived anywhere.

The Hawke’s clung to their traditions and maybe Bethany clung a little harder now that there were only the two of them.

“I ordered dinner from Luigi’s,” she added. “Should be here around eight o’clock.”

The first night in a new place meant wine, bread, and pasta. It had been homemade once, but Malcolm’s red sauce recipe had died with him; Bethany had never had the heart to try to duplicate it.

“I may look like him,” Garrett muttered, passing her the bottle and turning back to take the sugar down.  “But you got his heart, Beth.”

Sunlight streamed through the near bare window, brushed warm and golden across his earnest face, turning dust motes to embers. Bethany’s hands shook. His words were so close to her own thoughts that she reeled for a moment.

“I…”

She set the wine bottle on the counter and turned to blindly rinse the glasses of packing debris.

“Garrett…”

She knew he couldn’t hear her over the water. Not that she knew exactly what to say. There were different times of the year when she could feel them gathering close. Memory and longing so tangled up with lonesome that she was certain she was haunted. The cold shriek of winter always bore some of her mother’s shrillness. Summerday would forever belong to her, Carver, and Garrett, laughter ringing toward the stars as they chased fireflies across some long lost summer night. But autumn? Autumn would forever be Malcolm’s, and sometimes, when the bright slant of an autumn evening gilded Garrett’s dark hair in russet and flame, she could hardly see him for their father’s ghost.

“You got more of that than you think,” she said, switching off the water and keeping her face averted so that he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in her eyes. Maker’s breath, she missed them. “But you still can’t bake a decent sugar cookie.”

She turned away, wiped her eyes with damp fingertips before she faced him again.

“You could just bake them yourself, you know.” Garrett leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms folded in an approximation of menacing that had never fazed her. “I’d be more than happy to get out of your hair.”

“And down to  _the Tourney_  I don’t doubt.” Bethany hopped up on the end of the counter.

Kissing Day was two days away. Their father—and then Bethany and Garrett—had always spent the Thursday and Friday before filling their home with homemade baked goods. Her moving into her own place hadn’t let Garrett off the hook. He had been putting on a fine show of grumbling ever since she told him so.

Garrett didn’t take the bait. “I’m just surprised you didn’t kick me to the curb so that you could invite Larkson. Isn’t this sort of lovebird thing right up your alley?”

Bethany wasn’t biting either. “You know…I’m beginning to suspect you bungle them on purpose.” She leveled a bored stare across the kitchen. “A little bird told me you’re not actually a bad cook. That you make a fine batch of pancakes.”

His eyes rounded instantly and Bethany bit back a grin. Point for her then. She owed Essa cookies for the inside information.

“I do not!” Garrett gaped in indignation. “And that little bird is never getting pancakes again.”

She was trying to be a graceful winner, but there was a giggle trapped in her throat. A sudden effervescence determined to chase away her sorrow. If she didn’t let one of them go, she was going to choke. “You really want me to take that bet?”

“I hate you.” He made a threatening gesture with both hands.

“You don’t,” Bethany managed amid her laughter. “You’d be lost without me.”

“I do.” He pushed past her, nearly upsetting her perch.  “And I would. Now where’s the damn corkscrew?”

“Drawer closest to last cupboard,” she said. “You’re awfully cute when you sulk.”

“Shut up, Bethany.” But the words lacked any heat. He opened the drawer with more force than necessary.

“I still don’t like it,” he added, waving the corkscrew toward the open expanse of her new apartment.

His dark brows drew down deeper into the glower that hadn’t long left his face once she began moving her stuff out of the apartment they had shared since he moved them out of their mother’s place over on Sixth Street. He paced past her, thumped her on the knee in absent-minded annoyance.

“Yes, well.” She swung her feet, chose to misunderstand him. “Give me a few weeks and a few gallons of paint before you go passing judgment. It has good bones.”

The walls were still renter’s beige, but the equally uninspired white counters and once-white appliances were at least clean. She hadn’t unpacked any of her dishes yet—not that she had many of her own anyway—but there was a bit of pink eyelet hanging above the window over the sink and the light was good. It was bigger than the open studio that had been all they could afford for too damn long, but most importantly it was hers. All hers.

“That’s not what I meant,” Garrett said between his teeth, working the cork loose with more patience than his tone suggested. The cork slid free with a loud pop. Bethany held the glasses while he poured.

“Well, I don’t like having to bunk with Bela or Merrill every time you bring Essa back for a nightcap,” she retorted placing just enough emphasis on the word nightcap that Garrett flushed.

“I told you,” he grumbled, glaring over the rim of his glass. “That I could stop bringing her back to the apartment.”

“Unless you two are going to find another stairwell,” she said dryly. ”I’d still have to walk by you to get home.”

“That was  _one_ time!” he shouted, nearly dropping his glass.

“One time too many,” Bethany returned, failing to hide a snicker. She set her glass down untouched.

Not one of their friends would have believed the furious blush in his cheeks. Garrett Hawke might be a brazen scoundrel, but his sense of impropriety seemed to draw the line at talking sex with his little sister. Bethany couldn’t resist teasing him.

“It’s not just you,” she conceded in an innocent tone, swinging her feet and hopping down from the counter. “I’m twenty-two, Garrett.”

And if she ever managed to get Fin past far too gentlemanly goodnight kisses, she sure as the Void wasn’t bringing him back to the apartment she had shared with her brother. She rummaged around in another box searching for their father’s mixing bowls and waiting for Garrett to catch her meaning.

“I know that.” He tore open a box with more force than necessary, tape and cardboard rending in protest. “Can’t say I like that either.”

Garrett found the bowls first, dropped them onto the counter with a clatter of stainless steel.

“Not at all.”

He ran one hand through his hair, tousling the dark locks into something as wild and unkempt as he had been since Anders left. Bethany knew she wasn’t supposed to approve of the change—Garrett had been almost cruelly put together before, sharp suits and sharper tongue, too much violence in his hands—but lately something had softened those brutal edges. Oh, he was still plenty dangerous, but she liked the rogue more than the warrior.

“You gonna help?” he asked, gaze not quite meeting hers as he caught her staring. “Or are you going to make me do this myself?”

“You’d burn them.”

Bethany grinned and reached for the collar of his sweater, tugging it back into place. The red cotton had been their father’s, and even before the years stretched it into a shapeless sack it had been too big for him. She would have to see about making him his own.

“You look comfortable,” she said after a moment.

He didn’t pretend to miss her meaning. “I’ve told you, Beth.” His eyes were sober now, cheeks devoid of levity. “It’s just a rebound.”

He frowned suddenly. “You didn’t move out because—“

Bethany laughed shortly. “No. I moved out because I want to paint every wall in my apartment pink.”

Garrett blanched and she continued ruthlessly. “And because if I’m going to seduce—“

She didn’t see the blow coming. The bottom of the mixing bowl cracked gently onto the top of her head, more ringing steel than actual impact. Bethany squealed, reached up to dust the end of Garrett’s nose with a flick of frost from one glowing hand.

“Hey!” The bowl hit the floor with a reverberating knell. Garrett caught Bethany around the waist lifting her high as she screamed with laughter. “No magic allowed!”

“What are you a templar now?”

“Andraste, preserve me!” He made a show of pretending to drop her, holding her against his side with one strong arm while he clutched at his chest with the other hand and stumbled back to lean weakly against the counter. “Can you imagine?”

“No,” Bethany snorted. “The reds are more likely to shoot you than recruit you.”

“Maker’s truth there.”

Garrett set her feet on the floor, laughter not quite reaching his eyes. She would remedy that before the night was over.

“Come on.” Bethany nodded toward the sugar on the counter. “I haven’t decided how many dozen we’re baking this year.” She paused for his groan. “We’d better get started.”

“Fine.” Garrett retrieved their wine glasses, passed Bethany hers. “A toast first.”

“If you say something trite,” Bethany said, raising her glass. “I will mock you into next year.”

His lips twitched. “Well, now I’m nervous.”

“You should be.”

Garrett smirked. “To you, Bethany Hawke. May you build the life you want in your new place.”

He tapped his glass to hers with a ring of crystal . “And may you never forget that I live right next door.”

“And may you remember to confine your late night antics to the other side of your apartment.” Bethany clinked her glass to his. “I’m not at all above calling and complaining to management.”

 


	22. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: Kissing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany and Fin's first kissing day.

Happy Kissing Day!”

Essa stepped into the apartment she and Fin—and occasionally Cari—shared and immediately groaned. The place was festooned with white twinkling lights, red hearts, and lace garlands. There was a slow bluesy tune coming from the radio and some heavenly scent or six coming from the kitchen, but she’d bet her last paycheck they were heart-shaped or lip-shaped or covered in carefully lettered conversations like “Love You!” and “Main Squeeze!”

Bethany came around the corner of the kitchen entry just as Essa was fake retching into their umbrella stand.

“You don’t like Kissing Day?”

The younger Hawke looked completely confounded, and completely flawless. The red velvet dress hugged her from shoulder to knee, a flirty peplum catching light in the deep knap of the fabric and emphasizing slender curves. Her dark hair was down for once, style soft and loose, pulled back from her face with sparkling combs, and she was wearing smoky, dramatic makeup, her lips kiss-me red and pursed in consternation.

“Andraste, preserve me.”  Essa flung herself onto the couch, sprawled limbs still heavy and lax from the gym across cool leather. “ _You do_.”

“Of course I do,” Bethany said primly. “What’s not to like? Sweet treats and sweethearts, making certain those you love know how you feel about them.”

“If you really loved them,” Essa grumbled back. “They’d already know that. No trumped up consumer-driven racket is going to convince them.”

She threw one arm across her face, blocking all evidence of manufactured romance from her sight and waving her other hand at the room.

“How much did all this mess cost you?” Bethany made an indignant sound, but Essa soldiered on. “And are you expecting flowers? Because the flower market is even worse. Prices  _triple_  on roses, Beth. For a solid week before this stupid holiday. And don’t get me started on jewelry. I swear, I hate this fucking day. “

“That’s it!” Bethany grabbed Essa’s waving arm and began trying to haul her to her feet. “You are not ruining my first Kissing Day with Fin. Get out.”

Essa, who rather easily outweighed and outmuscled Bethany, simply moved her elbow from across her face and stared down her other arm at the end of Beth’s struggles.

“This is my apartment,” she reminded her friend, flexing her shoulder slightly and considering her retaliation carefully. “It was supposed to be the only safe place in this Mabari-forsaken city.”

Kissing Day fell on the second saturday of Kingsway, and after the long somber stretch from Summerday was greeted with wild abandon in Kirkwall. There wasn’t a storefront or flower cart unmarred by red and white decorations or emotionally manipulative marketing strategies.

“Why couldn’t you do all this at your apartment?” Essa asked, tugging just enough that Bethany skidded on the heels of her very tall, very sexy black peep-toe pumps. When they stopped arguing about Kissing Day, she’d have to find out where Bethany had come by them. “It’s mostly pink already.”

“It’s also above the only tavern in town that hates Kissing Day as much as you do,” Bethany griped. “Kind of hard to set a romantic mood when downstairs they’ll be throwing darts and knives and singing “don’t need no woman, don’t need no man” ballads all night.”

She gave Essa’s arm another hard pull and Essa finally pulled back, dragging Bethany down on top of her. She landed with a grunt just as the front door opened, spilling Fin and Garrett into the apartment.

“Well, now.” Fin’s blue eyes were bright with mischief. “I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this, given Essa’s nearly my sister and all, but if you two want—“

“Ew, Fin!” Essa smiled up at Bethany, hoping to soften what she realized had sounded insulting. “Not you, Beth, you’re smoking hot, but Fin. UGH.”

“Thanks for that,” Fin said wryly, stepping farther into the living room.

“Well, one of them  _is_  my sister,” Garrett’s deep voice grumbled, “so I’m going say ‘ew’—” The word was a dry mimic of Essa’s and had them all laughing. “Trevelyan, stop ogling Bethany.”

Essa snickered. “I want those shoes.”

“I’ll tell you where I got them only if you take your holiday-spoiling ass out of here tonight,” Bethany retorted.

“Vicious!” Essa stared across the apartment at Fin. “Do you hear this one? Kicking me out of my own place.”

“I just hadn’t gotten around to it,” he returned, lips curving quick then sweet as he strode to the couch and lifted Bethany from Essa’s lap with one hand. The other was tucked suspiciously behind his back. “You have a bag packed on your bed.”

“Traitor!” Essa crowed.

Not that anyone seemed to care. Fin ducked his head down to feather a kiss across Beth’s lifted lips.

“Happy Kissing Day,” he murmured, kicking Essa’s dangling foot when she started twitching. “These are for you.”

The roses were the same color as Bethany’s dress and there had to be at least two dozen of them. Bethany’s breath hitched and her eyes went immediately soft. Essa glanced away, gaze landing on Garrett and she realized he had his hands behind his back too.

“If you got me anything,” she threatened, meaning it, “I will beat your ass and you’ll be finding another fuck buddy.”

Fin choked on something that sounded suspiciously like laughter and Garrett grinned, wide and toothy. He pulled empty hands from behind his back.

“Oh, I’ve got something for you—”

“Garrett Hawke.” There was ice in Bethany’s voice. “I swear to the Maker if you even  _mention_  your pants right now I will give your favorite appendage the worst case of frostbite you’ve ever seen.”

Essa clapped one hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter as Garrett feigned innocence.

“But if you want overpriced flowers or chocolates,” he continued as if his sister hadn’t cowed him from saying the exact words he’d been about to say. “Then you can buy them your damn self.”

“Exactly!” Essa agreed, dodging another kick from Fin.

Garrett’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Of course, play your cards right tonight and I might buy you some of the clearance roses tomorrow.”

“I’d kiss you,” Essa replied. “But I’m boycotting this entire day.”

“So no kissing?” He chewed on his lips as if to punish her for even thinking it. “Everywhere? Or just lips?”

“Get! Out!”

Essa was on the floor before she could answer, boots frosted with ice. Bethany’s soft eyes were crackling, and her hands were glowing. Fin looked that much more smitten.

The jerk.

“I hate the two of you,” Bethany declared as Garrett stepped forward, hauled Essa up amid the twining songs of their laughter.

He swung her up over one shoulder and Essa didn’t bother protesting. The sooner they got out, the sooner Fin and Bethany could commence with the lovey-dovey bullshit, and she might hate the day, but Maker knew she didn’t begrudge either of them what they were finding together.

“Bag’s on her bed?” Garrett asked.

“Yes,” Fin nodded and Essa craned her neck to mock glare at him. She’d get creative with the payback, she decided. His impenitent grin suggested he knew it too.

“There are cookies in there,” Bethany sighed.

“Are they heart-shaped?” Essa asked, lifting up enough to narrow her eyes at Bethany.

“They are.” The exasperation in her voice didn’t quite hide her mirth. “But I put really snarky conversations on them.”

“Did you now?” Garrett pinched Essa’s ass and she launched one heel back towards his face. He caught her foot, pinched her again.

“Like what?” Essa asked.

“Most of them just say ‘Assholes’.” Bethany laughed helplessly. “A few say Fight Me.”

Essa laughed. “I’ll bring you half-priced flowers tomorrow, Beth.”

She squealed suddenly, tucked in close against Garrett’s back so that she didn’t crack her head on the door casing as he swept into her bedroom. Garrett grabbed her bag off the bed, pivoted fast enough that she pinched a bruise on his side.

“Yes,” Bethany agreed mildly as her brother swore. “You will. Both of you.”

“Happy Kissing Day, Bethany.”

Garrett bent, presumably to kiss his sister’s cheek, Essa couldn’t see. She looked around for Fin, found him standing at the mantle lighting candles.

“By the Mabari,” Essa swore. “Is Fin wearing a suit?”


	23. Let's Talk About Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany Hawke and the gang. Friendship fluff. Talk of sex. humor. This was written for 2017's Sex, Laughter, Honesty week over on tumblr.

“Look, I’m sorry that people with penises can’t have multiple orgasms…”

Every face around the table turned to Bethany. She was halfway through her second glass of wine. She hadn’t had nearly enough sleep or food in the past two days to allow for a third, but Fin was there. She stared at him blearily, blew him a kiss when his lips tilted up in a smile. He would make sure she didn’t drink more than she really should.

“But in no way,” she continued, still full of righteous irritation from her shift at the clinic, “does that mean those of us without penises should have to suffer right along with you.”

As a cold open, it wasn’t even the worst of the month, let alone the week. Essa grinned at her from the other end of the table.

“No it doesn’t.” She lifted her short of whiskey in a toast, grey eyes full of mischief. “Tell us more, Doc.”

She wasn’t a doctor yet, but she would be. Bethany was currently volunteering in Lowtown’s network of free clinics, shadowing a doctor she had met the year before, a specialist in women’s and reproductive health. The semester of independent study counted toward her residency; it also allowed her some flexibility in making her schedule down at the hospital. There were too many days when she didn’t get any sleep, but she was learning a lot and she was doing good work.

Wasn’t that what med school was all about anyway?

“Oh, yes,” Garrett grumbled from beside Essa. “Let’s all encourage my little sister to rant about sex until she passes out in her cups.”

“Look.” She tended to over-command attention when she was this tired, but she was just waiting on her supper…breakfast…whatever meal Bela was currently badgering the cook into preparing for her even though the kitchen was closed. Bethany rubbed her eyes. “Look,” she started again. “There are some penises out there that think their pleasure is all that fucking matters.”

She had met a woman…a forty year old woman in a longterm relationship with a penis, who had six children and who suspected—after twenty years with her sex partner!—that she had never once had an orgasm. Bethany couldn’t wrap her head around it.

“Did you know that?” she demanded, leaning on her elbows to wave one hand at Fin. “Varric, you’d better not be taking notes.”

“If I don’t, Sunshine–” His smile was impenitent. “–how will you remember tomorrow what you say tonight?”

Bethany considered as she did every week. “Fine. But I want a copy before you go putting this into any of your work.” She took a sip of wine. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

She stared around the table, trying to decide how much she should tell them, how much they might not know. It was unlikely that any of them were as misinformed—blighted, Chantry purity culture!—as the woman she had met today, but just in case…

“You do know that female orgasm is not some esoteric mystery, right?”

Bethany addressed the group, steadfastly ignoring both her brother and his friend with benefits or whatever the heck Essa was. Which left Varric and Fin. Fin’s smile was the most beautiful thing in the room. When she got like this, he always looked at her as if he were half proud, half amused. Wholly hers.

“It’s not that difficult to achieve, and any person with a penis who tells you that it’s too hard to get a clit off just doesn’t know what he’s doing!” She had heard it all today, and from more than that one woman. How penises were ‘easy’, but how intercourse just didn’t do that much for vaginas. And it didn’t, obviously. Nerve receptors and all sorts of other considerations, but—“Penetrative sex is not the only sex to be had!”

She leaned back in her chair, nearly overbalancing when she tried to put her feet in Fin’s lap, careful of his penis because he damn well knew what he was doing with or without it and she was quite fond of the appendage. She glared down the table. Garrett was currently sinking lower and lower into his chair. Bethany took his attempted retreat as a sign of guilt and not as confirmation of the little voice in the back of her head that told her she’d said some of that about Fin and his penis out loud.

“You do know that a penis is not a magical thing, right?” She jabbed one finger at Garrett. “You can’t just ram it in and expect an orgasm to happen for anyone but you.”

Clinicals had given her a whole new language, bawdy, direct. She rather liked it. Sometimes euphemism was pretty; sometimes it was a whole lot of useless. For educational purposes, it was a nightmare.

“BETHANY!” Garrett’s squeak of indication was definitely a sign of guilt.

He hadn’t exactly had the string of lovers Essa regularly accused him of, and the longest relationship he had been in was with another penis.  Apparently something like sixty percent of those didn’t like going down their woman. She couldn’t remember what the percentage was of ones who knew their way around a clit, but at this point in her day she doubted it was high.

“Don’t you ‘Bethany’ me in that tone, Garrett Hawke. Our father would be ashamed of you.”

Sixty percent.

“Did you know that only one in four women reliably experience orgasm during regular intercourse?” She leveled this newfound statistic at Essa, who met her accusation with her usual implacable stare. “How is that these suits are swaggering around the city like they’re doing something? Comparing sizes and talking about their conquests when they can’t get a woman off?”

She was mad all over again. Because she was a nurse and she hadn’t known. Because she should have. Because they all should have. Because girls were being raised to be ashamed of their bodies and boys were being raised not to care about them. Sex wasn’t talked about, damn sure wasn’t talked about with any sense of practicality.

“I should hand out pamphlets,” she muttered to herself. “Diagrams for you morons.”

“Hey!” Essa objected from the other end of the table, and for a moment Bethany thought she was going to defend Garrett’s honor. “Fin’s no moron.”

“Of course not,” Bethany didn’t see the trap until she had sprung it; she turned to pat Fin fondly on the shoulder, leaned in to kiss the smug grin that threatened to split his face before he fought it back. “He more than knows his way around.”

“That’s my boy,” Essa announced proudly, lifting one hand in a high five above the table. Fin at least had the decency to look mildly chagrined as he slapped his palm to hers.

“What would you even have to do with that?” Garrett screeched.  _Screeched_. “Why would you even—?”

The rest of his horror was drowned out by laughter, the loudest rose from their table, but that certainly wasn’t all of it. Bethany couldn’t feel her lips she was laughing so hard. Garrett glowered at Essa, intent clear in his dark eyes; he was never forgiving any of them.

“If you think I didn’t send him a book—“ Essa started, only to have Fin interject drily, “Or seven.”  

“Six—“ She rolled her eyes before continuing “—when he started chasing skirts, then you’re crazy.”

“I didn’t chase that many skirts,” Fin griped.

“I don’t care if you did,” Bethany added. “As long as it was safe, sane, consensual.”

“Two out of three count?” Varric asked, pointing the end of his pen at Garrett and Essa.

But Essa wasn’t through. “I’d heard enough dissatisfied hearsay. Wasn’t gonna have my best friend out there bringing shame to our stable.”

Bethany couldn’t breathe. Fin caught her glass before she dropped it and she sprawled forward onto the table, laughing until her face hurt and eyes teared.

“Fuck,” Garrett groused, finishing his bourbon in one rough swallow. He leveled his fiercest stare at Fin, then Essa. “You two are fucking odd, you know that.”

Essa shrugged. “Least Fin knows what he’s doing.”

She was just goading him at this point, and Bethany had a mind to let her. She owed him for the past year. More than. Owed them both come to that, but Bethany didn’t think she could embarrass Essa quite the same way. She’d get to it though.

“Alright, you two.” She was too tired to muster much composure, but she tried, pushing herself up in her chair, and leveling a stern glance at everyone. Varric’s pen was fair flying over the page; she could only hope he was writing down the important parts. Education through fiction was better than the alternatives. “I’m trying to teach you people.”

“Consider us enlightened,” Garrett mumbled, scrubbing one hand across his face as if he wanted to hide behind it. “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Communication is very important,” Bethany told him. “And not just between sex partners. You could learn a lot from just talking to a person with a vagina.”

“Assuming I even need to have that conversation,” he returned, “I won’t be having it with you.”

“I’m a medical professional,” Bethany smirked. She had never seen her brother blush so fiercely—and Maker’s breath, he was blushing now—she didn’t know that she was quite ready to let up. “And these are important topics people don’t talk about enough.” She threw her last card on the table. “You do know where the g-spot is, don’t you?”

“BETHANY!”

Essa’s howl of laughter was probably all that saved any of them. She took pity on Garrett, or maybe she was just having too much fun at Fin’s expense, it was sort of a free for all when Bethany started talking about sex. The week before they’d discussed oral sex preferences across cultures and demographics. Fin had turned purple before Bethany came to his rescue.

“Enough,” Essa gasped. She had one arm around Garrett, as much to keep him from escaping as anything else, Bethany thought, and she was cuddled close, face turned into his chest as laughter wracked her body. He was grinning helplessly as he wrapped his arms around her to keep her upright. “Enough, Beth, we yield.”

“Well, it looks like I came back just in time.” Bela’s laugh was smoky as she sat a tray in front of Bethany. “I’m almost sad to end this conversation.”

A sandwich, a glass of water, and Fin would be carrying her upstairs. It was becoming something of a routine, one she loved almost as much as waking to him beside her.

“You missed it.” Beth smiled up at her.

“Sugar, no one in the whole tavern missed it.” She took the seat beside Bethany, flicked an appreciative glance past her to Fin. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s got that look about him.”

“And I don’t?” Garrett demanded.

“Bethany, he’s fine.” Essa really must have felt sorry for him. Bethany filed that misplaced compassion away for future use. “Really.”

“Fine?!” Garrett’s outrage was only about half feigned and Bethany couldn’t stop grinning. They might all squirm and protest, but they talked about things when they mattered, hid behind humor when they had to.

“I can give her specifics if you’d like,” Essa offered, before he clapped his hand over her mouth.

“Fine will do.”

Bethany shot Fin a gimlet look. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that.”

“BETHANY!”


	24. Hair-raising Hijinx*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *no one can make me apologize for that terrible, awful, punny title. :D
> 
> Bethany x Fin, NSFW. This was written for Sex, Laughter, Honesty week 2017 over on tumblr. Oral sex, communication.

“Beth.”

There was laughter in Fin’s voice, a warmer gilding of desire on the edges. His hands were in fists at his sides as Bethany worked the buttons of his slacks loose, the zipper descending with a loud, satisfying burr.  Her dress was in a puddle beneath her and she was already on her knees, wearing nothing but a rose satin teddy and sheer hose attached to the garters.

“Fin.”

She rubbed her cheek back and forth over his thigh as she waited for him to gather his words. They had been having sex for a few weeks now, weren’t quite past the point of needing verbal assurances. She had to know they weren’t headed anywhere he didn’t want to go.

“You seem—“ He lost his breath as he stared down the line of his body, blue eyes dark in the late evening light. She watched him swallow hard, smile hitching up a little crooked on one corner. “You seem in an awful hurry for someone who has the entire night.”

Bethany smiled, pushed a long lock of her dark hair back over her shoulder with the rest.  She had left it loose tonight, knowing how much he loved having his hands in it, and that was still a pale comparison to how much she loved feeling his fingers on her scalp, the slow close of his fingers around thick handfuls. He never pulled. Maker knew it would shock her if he did. Fin was a quiet lover. He didn’t grab or force or demand, he’d rather enjoy what was given, marvel at the wonder of what they shared. Every time she remembered the way he had whispered those words against her skin, she melted.

“We have never had the place to ourselves,” she reminded him.

A rare occurrence these days. If Essa wasn’t here, Cari was, or Cole was crashing on the couch, but tonight…tonight the apartment was all theirs and they didn’t have to be careful or quiet or restrained in anyway. Unless they wanted to. She wasn’t much into being tied down, but maybe Fin…? Bethany couldn’t quite see it, but you never knew. She’d definitely have to ask him.

“Would you rather take this to the bedroom?”

She leaned forward, blew a warm breath into the open fly of his slacks. Fin groaned, head landing against the door with a thunk.

“Not on my account.”

His fingers moved light as a butterfly’s wing against her cheek. Bethany turned her face into his hand, opened her mouth against his palm, wide and wet, as she worked his erection free from soft cotton briefs with gentle fingers.

“I have been thinking about this,” she confessed softly, rising up on her knees until her lips were a breath from heated skin, “all evening.”

“Condom?”

She never had to remind him and, Maker, that was the sexiest damn thing. She hadn’t yet decided when to broach the topic of unprotected oral sex. They were months into a monogamous relationship that had–if they were being honesty–been going on for over a year for both of them. Neither of them had taken a lover since the day they met. Never was one for substitutes, Fin said. And she couldn’t help but agree.

“Beth…” Her name strained taut with warning. “That’s a conversation for another time, yes?”

Her smile was her only answer. She ripped the condom wrapper open, rolled the latex down over him swiftly and just ahead of her seeking lips. Fin’s breath hissed out, curses or praises, maybe both, but all unspoken as she stole whatever words he might have given her with her mouth. She closed over him hard and fast, no more pause for breath or acclimation. His hands tangled in her hair as she sucked her way down his length, swallowing him down in a move that still needed more practice. Not that he ever minded.

“Fuck, Bethany.”

That soft expletive was always her undoing. She kept her lips tight over him as she drew back, dragging her mouth over pulsing veins, working her tongue along the underside of his penis in gradually loosening increments. When she reached the head she drew a circle around him with her tongue, slid back forward, working her mouth onto him with the slow rocking of her body.

His hands were back at his sides now, fingers pressed wide to the door behind him. Bethany’s hair fell forward like a silken curtain, enveloping her face, obscuring whatever view he might have had and she used that to her advantage, hands and mouth working together to surprise him with the unexpected, anticipation and uncertainty adding a sting of adrenaline to passion’s haze.  She hummed a bit as she rocked forward, lips opening wide as she took him deeper into her mouth.

She got a mouthful of her own hair. Well, maybe not a mouthful, but there were at least three strands tangling sharp around her tongue. Bethany frowned, tried to carefully disentangle them without losing momentum, but the damn strand was still attached to her head and—oh, Maker, was it wrapped around her uvula?!?  She flicked her gaze up the long, lean line of Fin’s body. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? He certainly didn’t look as if anything was amiss.

There was a sigh above her. Another wordless murmur. He wasn’t writhing, but he was for Fin. Bethany smiled around his erection, pulled back to nip lightly, then lower and lower until he was twitching beneath her attentions while she tried to free her tongue from her own strands of keratin.  When she finally managed to get them both untangled she sat back on her heels.

“Sorry.” She frowned a little at the apology, knowing full well he didn’t need it and didn’t want it. “Give me a sec?”

“I could probably use a moment anyway,” Fin teased as she tried to coil her hair into a haste knot at the back of her neck. “You’re going to make me embarrass myself.”

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek. Beth caught his thumb with cautious teeth, sucked another groan from his lips and a twitch from his undeterred erection.

“Can’t have that,” she said, in a tone meant to suggest just the opposite. There wasn’t much she loved more than feeling him lose control.

She pushed his hand away gently, repositioned. She managed another full minute before her hair uncoiled, too sleek and silky and just the wrong hair type to curl into itself and hold.

Bethany sighed around Fin’s penis.

“Couldn’t you just—“ She gathered her hair into a ponytail, held it tight in one hand to demonstrate. “Just hang onto it.”

“No.” The reply was immediate and flat.

“No?” She pushed back to her heels and stared up at him, brow furrowed.  No was, of course, an answer easily accepted between them, she just hadn’t expected it for such a simple request.

“No,” Fin repeated, head back and eyes closed, hands as far from her as he could get them without lifting them over his head.  “I’m not going to—“

Was he blushing? Bethany blinked, trying to focus through the tawny evening light. “You’re not going to..?”

“Hold your hair.” He wasn’t sputtering, but this might be the closest she had ever seen him to doing so. “And…fuck…your mouth…” He shook his head, took a deep breath and soldiered on in a dizzying rush. “I know some men are really into that, women too, though I personally think sometimes that’s a bunch of internalized male desire stuff, but Essa says that’s denying women agency and—“

“Andraste, preserve me!” Bethany lurched to her feet, pressed her lips to his to stop the torrent of words. “Fin Larkson,” she mumbled between kisses. “You’re too perfect, you know that?”

“I’m grown ass man, blushing over oral sex,” he retorted grumpily, but he kissed her back, slow and sweet before he added, “That’s hardly perfect.”

“You are.” Bethany reached between them, ran a light touch over him just in case he thought she wasn’t still very much interested in what they’d been doing. “And I’m not…”

She took a breath, and no, she was absolutely not blushing too. “I’m not asking you to pull my hair or hold me by my ponytail while you fuck my mouth.”

That wasn’t her style either.

“Bethany.”

He sounded so upset she kissed him again. “I just don’t have a hair tie and I can’t go down on you without choking on my own hair and well—“ She squeezed him again, sucked lightly at the downward curve of his bottom lip. “I’d really like to.”

“I wasn’t turning you down,” he huffed indignantly. “I just…”

“Just hold it,” Bethany said, stepping away and gathering her hair. When she had it in a single hand, she sank to her knees again. “Just here.”

His hands were gentle, cautious, fingertips blazing trails of heat against her neck. The sweep of his thumbs to the curve of her ear had her shivering.

“Like this?” She could feel him watching her.

“Yes.” Bethany leaned forward, opened her mouth slowly, stealing his breath even before she touched him. “Exactly like that.”


	25. The Doctor & the Blacksmith: the Bloodiest Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. such angst. present tense. Bethany Hawke. Fin Larkson. The night Garrett almost died.
> 
> TW: blood, death mention, canon typical violence and death.

They say that healers have the bloodiest hands, but as Bethany watches her brother’s blood run into the pockmarked basin of Essa’s kitchen sink, she finds little comfort in that old, cynical truth. She has spent too much of her life washing the blood of her loved ones from hers, and her fingers are stained as crimson as the ruined clothing and makeshift bandages strewn across the floor of her impromptu operating room.

Garrett’s alive. Essa’s alive. That’s all that matters.

But there isn’t enough soap.  The water’s gone cold and her nailbeds are tender. But there isn’t enough fucking soap. She needs the good stuff. Rough and dull green like her father used to keep in the mudroom for when he came in from a long day of working in the fields. Malcolm Hawke had been no gentleman farmer, and no cosseted mage. Bethany isn’t sure what she is, but it’s neither of those. She is an apostate in name only, and the right people are as invested in her freedom and her education as she is.

Four years ago, Carver’s blood bought her that much. The brass doesn’t like debts and Garrett had been quick to balance Bethany’s life in Kirkwall against the death of their brother.

Not worth it, never worth it. And she’s stained with it. Wears her ill-gotten freedom like an ill-fitting coat.

She’s been nearly elbow deep in blood ever since, but until tonight, there’s never been any that clung so thickly to her hands, seeping into her pores until her body choked scarlet and black and helpless. Even when the water runs clear to circle the drain and her fingers—slim and delicate just like her mother’s—are abraded bright pink from scrubbing and her nails shine faintly like the inside of a scallop shell, Bethany knows that they will never be clean.

That she will never be clean.

She can still feel Carver’s blood against her palms, gushing warm and sticky, somehow the sweetest stench on the Makerforsaken street. It gurgles, a rush like the distant echoes of the street fountain near her apartment, but that night the sound was louder than the sirens and the gunshots and the incandescent fury of Garrett’s grief beating against the wail of her shattering soul. She was helpless that night too.

Useless.

She can never be again.

Bethany doesn’t sense him until she sees his hands close over hers, doesn’t quite recognize the warmth of his chest against her back or the strength of his arms around her waist. Through the haze of weariness there is only the grip of memory and perpetual sorrow. 

Now there is panic. She is the last one standing. The only one who can protect the warriors recovering in the quiet cottage. She calls frost first because it’s easiest, because she has so little left, and she glances frantically around the room. The knife block is too far away, and the flagging sting of adrenaline isn’t enough to get her there. The hands on hers tighten, a punishment she deserves but can never ask for. The fine bones in her fingers—Amell bones—grind together and she gasps, finally fights him as he moves their hands beneath the water warmer only for the contrast. His skin is turning ashen before she realizes he has no intention of letting go.

“Fin…“

His name is a sigh. It should be broken. She should be a shuddering, sobbing mess in his arms, but she is so far beyond exhaustion that she can only wound him for his steadfastness. His hands, his beautiful, strong, blacksmith’s hands are singed with cold instead of flame and the skin around his square, blunt nails has curled back. She touches him with cautious fingertips and blood wells bright as judgment against the melting frost.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

His breath stirs the mess of her hair. She’s still sweaty from healer’s exertion and battle fury, strung too tight from hypervigilance and punishing focus, and–Andraste, preserve her–there is too much understanding within him. Too great a heart. There would have to be, she knows, to love as he does the wild and the broken and the lost.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Inadequate. Useless. The apology tastes like old blood on her tongue. Bethany calls what little magic has returned from a night that has nearly taken all from her. Her connection to the Fade is as sharp as ice and brittle. She knows that it hurts even as it heals, but it’s all that she has to give him.

He deserves more.

“You shouldn’t have held on.”

Her voice wavers on the rebuke and Fin says nothing. He shifts gently behind her, legs brushing hers, arms gentle. He is always a stalwart, immovable force. He laces their fingers together while her magic coughs and sputters and repairs what damage she has caused. She should have told him by now that she loves him.

“Your hands are clean.”

He releases her abruptly, as if he knows the folly of her heart and seeks to spare them both, and so she stares down at the sink, spares herself the folly of falling into the summer sky of his gaze. Fin reaches up, turns off the tap with two terse movements. He has Bethany’s hands wrapped in a clean kitchen towel before she can escape the gentle cage of his body. The inside of his arms brush the outside of hers and his chest is a solid shift muscle forged thick by the steel he works.

“They’re clean, Bethany.”

The words rumble from his chest into her back, rough, a little angry, and she realizes then that he knows, that there’s no use sparing either of them.

“They’ll never be clean.”


	26. Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...this would be the infamous "last time" before Essa freaked out and broke off her hate/wedon'tadmititslove affair with Garrett prior to the events of More Than Smoke.
> 
> sad smut follows. such sad. NSFW.

Before she remembers where and who she is, there are lips on her temple, small chaste kisses that feather up to her hairline, breath warm against skin that is only just waking into being. His beard is soft, nearly smooth in one direction as he rubs his chin against her cheek, the gesture too tender, too new to be real. She lifts her face to him and he drags his lips down to meet her silent entreaty, whiskers a tickling scratch on the descent that begins finally to drag her to the edge of the Fade.

She’s been asleep forever, but not nearly long enough, after staying awake for days worrying that he might never open his eyes. She remembers this vaguely, slumber still deep and heavy in her limbs as he pulls her beneath him and she thinks it must be a dream. His hands glide too gently, too carefully over sensitive skin and aching flesh. She arches against him before caution rises higher than pleasure, before her stirring mind can confirm reality. His fingers skim the side of her breast, travel like mist and fantasy down her side, raising rough pebbles and a rush of slow heat. He grazes the edge of gauze, cheek pressing once against hers before his lips sooth the grimace from her brow.

“How bad?” They are the first words he’s spoken to her, the hoarse rumble quiet, rough against her jaw.

She turns her lips to his cheek, presses a kiss against thick scruff. His hands move lower, testing, teasing, asking for something neither of them are ready for.

“Nothing vital.”

Her fingers brush like ghosts across his chest. “Not like yours.” She doesn’t open her eyes yet, but she stills. “We shouldn’t. You’re—”

“Not dying,” he murmurs against her collarbone. His hands fall to the bed beside her and his arms flex against her side. She knows he shouldn’t be supporting his weight on them. “Damned happy about that, in case you can’t tell.”

His hips settle against hers and Essa groans. “You’re naked.”

The accusation is breathless; it sounds enough like surrender that he chuckles, nuzzles her breast with one coarse cheek. “So are you.”

“I always sleep naked,” she mutters, trying to decide if it would be safe to push him away or pull him toward her. “You—“

“I,” he interrupts before she can protest, “have already gotten up, walked to the bathroom, and the kitchen, let Bethany fuss over me and feed me. Magic is a powerful thing.”

He kisses her neck, a warm wet scrape of teeth that has her keening on the right side of awake.  

“You’re more exhausted than I am,” he breathes just beneath her ear. He rocks forward into the cradle of her hips and his erection slides through begging, desperate lips. “We can stop if you want, but not on my account.”

“Maker’s breath, Garrett.” She feels his smile curve against her throat, writhes helplessly, driving him against her clit, failing to bite back a broken cry of satisfaction. “At least—“

Her breath is ragged, body warming to every reverent touch, heart stumbling, faltering, tightening with tears as she remembers watching his fail.

“At least get off your arms.” She’ll have him, she decides. Now. Consequences be damned.

He laughs, the puff of air hot against her clamoring skin. “That’s my girl.”

Essa feels the possessive like a brand, rails against the dark pleasure that coils through her even as she wraps her legs around his waist.

“I’m not your girl.”

She lifts her hips, angles up to take him in on a too tight, too bright slide. She muffles a scream between her teeth and his shoulder, body strung taut between pleasure and pain and pleasure again.

“You are tonight.” His hand cradles the back of her neck and he kisses her on the mouth, a hard, brief tangle that wanes fragile in its denouement.

Tonight, they are their most glorious disaster and Essa can’t bring herself to fight both of their hearts’ desires.

“I am.”

Garrett leans up then, sinks back low between his heels, weight off of his arms as she asked. He spreads his knees to either side of her hips and watches their bodies join, watches the way her eyes open to travel, sleepily and heavy-lidded, down the curves of her body, gaze rising toward his with dangerous hesitance. There are shadows between them, blood and bandages, death dodged. A dozen fading worries and a hundred unspoken declarations that he has left on her skin over the years. She moves like hope, a threat of splendor, sun-dark limbs tangling against sheets bright with moonlight. He holds her waist in his broad hands, thumbs bruising the sharp jut of a her hipbones as he finds a slow, steady rhythm, dragging from her desperate cries until her throat is too parched for more than encouraging whimpers.

“Garrett…”

One last volley of praise and her hands are grasping at him, nails raking across his thighs to pull herself closer, to pull him deeper into her heat. She trembles in earnest, moans echoing against the distant surf before her orgasm shudders around him. The moment spins out, at once eternal and ephemeral. She’s the most beautiful fire he’s ever seen and he’s so damned grateful that they’re both alive and mostly whole, that together they are a force of ages.

If only now, at the end.

His climax takes him with a ruthlessness he isn’t expecting, steals his breath in waves of pleasure that leave them both gasping. Her touch is gentle now, she strokes his legs idly, eyes drifting closed as her breathing slows. She’s falling back asleep with him still inside her.

“Es?”

“Mmmhmmm?” she yawns, wriggles once against him.

He smooths his hands along her open thighs, rubs at the inside of her knees.

“You’re going to have to let me go.”


	27. Sweeter Than the Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany, Fin, Essa. 
> 
> The night they all nearly lost Garrett. Angst. Heartbreak, but healing too.

Fin is hovering in the small hallway of Essa’s cottage when she comes out of her bedroom.  She’s banged up, and patched up, but the wounds on her body are nothing like those in her eyes. He knows that Essa’s heart is broken the moment she looks at him, and he also knows that if he speaks a word of it, she’ll never forgive him.

“Tell Beth he’s sleeping again,” she says, pulling a quilted flannel shirt from a peg by the door. It’s as close as she uses for a coat when she’s here and that she needs it at all is a bad sign. “I’m going to the barn, and then I’m going back to Kirkwall.”

She shakes her head when he tries to offer argument, and he lets her win. There’s too much else waiting, and anyway, he’s hardly concerned with her sleeping in the barn. It isn’t her first time and it won’t be her last. He and his father may have lived in the caretaker’s apartment on her family estate, but Essa lived in the barn, sleeping in stalls with her mabari and her father’s old courser. She’s safer there than here anyway.

“Es.”

Her hand is on the front door, but her gaze is still lingering on the one she’s closed behind her. He wants to ask her too many questions, knows she already has answers to ones she never thought to ask.

“He nearly died for me,” she says so softly he can barely hear her over the sound of the shower. He’s expecting any number of reasons for retreat to follow, but not the one that does. “I can’t be the one who takes him from Bethany.”

And really, there’s nothing he can say to that. No truth stronger than those bitter dregs. Bethany Hawke has lost too damn much; Garrett and Essa are going to cost her more if things don’t change.

“Do you think he’ll let you go?” The words are wrong, but they’re all he can muster.  Essa’s heart is not a sacrifice he thought he would ever be willing to make, but here they are; he won’t tell her to follow hers at Bethany’s cost.

And Essa wouldn’t want him to.

She chuckles, but the exhalation sounds more like a sob. “He won’t fight me,” she replies, and those words are better and worse and infinitely truer than the ones he stumbled over. “You’ll take care of them?”

Fin nods. “On my love.”

Not his honor or his word. Essa grew up in a world where neither matter much nor endure.

“Fin.”

She’s against his chest then, face buried, arms tight and fierce around his waist. Her body shakes once hard, as if she might break apart, but she’s gone before he can wrap her in a hug. The front door closes between them as quiet as the death Bethany kept from her brother the night before, and when Fin looks down at his white t-shirt there are tear stains mixed with the blood left from Bethany’s hands.

“Fin?”

The bathroom door opens a crack and Bethany’s face appears in the scant space, one hand clutching the door, holding it mostly closed. Her face is pale, but clean, devoid of the smears that were all the night had left of her makeup, but he’s staring at her hand, relieved for her sake to see the blood gone from her fingers.

“Essa?” she asked quietly, lifting her chin toward the front door.

“Yeah.” When she glances toward Essa’s room, he offers what reassurance he can. “Sleeping.”

Bethany nods.  “I’ll be out in a few.”

Her eyes are cloudy, blue a haze of exhaustion and heartache.  “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

~*~

She doesn’t want something to eat. She wants everything to stop for five damn minutes. She wants to not hear gunshots ringing in her ears. She wants the world to be something it’s not. Something fine and clean and quiet. A place where her brother is happy and safe and she works in a hospital instead of pulling bullets out of his chest or patching up apostates and renegades in the back of  _the Hanged Man_. She wants the choking fear to ease from her throat. She wants to not feel so fucking empty.

She needs to be stronger.

When Bethany opens the bathroom door a second time, there’s resolution in her hands. She tucks the edges of her towel together, absurdly grateful when her hands don’t shake. There’s a robe on the back of the door, but it’s Essa’s, and the last thing she wants is for Fin to see her in the lingerie of a woman who may as well be his sister.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, hands around a glass of whiskey she doubts he’s touched.  He’s not a big drinker, even when the occasion calls for it, and if there’s a night that does, it’s this one.  His shoulders are slumped, red hair hanging over his forehead, and there’s a plate of sandwiches beside him.

“There’s soup on the stove,” he says without looking up. “Kettle’s warm if you want tea.”

“I don’t want tea.”  

She walks over to the stove, switches off both eyes. He’s changed shirts in the time that she was in the shower, and the kitchen has been scrubbed as clean as she is. The air smells of bleach and peroxide and chicken soup.

Fin holds up the glass of whiskey, and she takes it with less grace than he deserves, knocks it back with barely a cough. He still isn’t looking at her and she wonders if it’s because of the way she broke down with him earlier. Perhaps they’re finally through with whatever dance they’ve been dancing this past year. Attraction, denial, something like friendship, before they finally gave in, decided to give dating an honest try.  It’s been seven months, and it took most of those before she got him into bed, but the sex is good. Better than good. There’s laughter between them and affection. He’s home in a way she’s never felt, and that’s gone too long unsaid.

After tonight, Bethany is through leaving things unsaid.

“You,” she says boldly, clunking the glass back to the table hard enough that he finally looks up.

She doesn’t know what he sees in her eyes, but his breath catches for half a beat before he turns, chair legs scraping on the kitchen floor. She steps between his knees, denim a rough scrape against the outside of her legs as she nudges his apart.

“I want you.”

His smile is a bleak whisper and she knows that he understands now some of the darkness she carries. There are blood debts she can never pay, and she’s red to the elbows no matter how clean she looks.

“You have me,” he says, hands rising toward prayers before the fall soft upon her hips, holding her steady as he finally tips back his chin, meets every question in her eyes with stalwart mercy. “You’ve had me.”

His smile is almost teasing, but there’s something more, something caught between awe and disbelief, and she knows with certainty what she faced with fear only hours before.

“I won’t be afraid anymore.” His brows lift in query, but she’s already forging ahead, determined that it be so. “I love you, Fin Larkson.”

“Maker’s breath, Bethany.” He pulls her down into his lap, catches her lips in a kiss sweeter than the night’s bitter. “I love you too.”


End file.
